by Jen Hunt, from the archives
Coy winter plays at summer
As the breeze grazes my temples
But her chill betrays
The true season
The sun lifts her head from her pillow
The sun props herself up with her hands
Arching her back
She stretches
One arm
Then another—
Exhales her breathy rays above the hills
My spirit slinks down
Distilled by glow
Refined by shadow
We are at rest
The sun and I
