She had an air of folded bedsheets
            Crisp, cream-coloured and insouciant
            Which I admired
            With the strength of roots
            Patient in thirst

            Surely there danced
            Somewhere within her eyes
            The light rains of the broken dove,
            Bruised lilacs, throbbing harvests of 
            Spite and neglect

            From the curvature of 
            Necessary sin
            I call to her

            And with the imprint of
            Autumnal lips, bred in rebellion,
            I might stay this lovely fugitive
            And slow, perhaps, her pace
            To our remains


            Emanuel E. García, Wandering Bark2013