Under the Oak

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Your cheeks are blushed—

rubbed bright in pink lipstick. 

Ashy hair bobbed and curled—

brush, brushing, fluffing

The wicker chair crushes and crunches

beneath you.

Shhhh—

the air thick with flowered poison.

My nostrils take in its musky sweetness

as you pat your hair,

sculpting it,

testing its hold.

Not a strand strays.

Outside,

the breeze hushes—

a horse chuffs—

the land lush

with rosebushes, pear trees, and hay

We do not rush.

We snip sharp stems,

their thorns pricking

Airbrushed by the summer sun,

the earth flush with life—

And you?

Alas.

Ashes—

kept in shade

under the oak,

where the brush rustles.