themidnightfemme

like the trees, with gentle swaying and implied moaning, changing each season with colors and moods,
burning from the sun with lime brilliance,
suffusing from the moon with luminous grays of uncertainty,
each hue with its own existence,
lusciously moist, or moribundly brittle,
while the browns of the roots remain solid
beneath the soil.
Your eyes are

like the ground, with compressed and concealed layers,
below green pansophical coverages,
coalescing from the rain with roily consistency,
freezing from the snow with marbling white,
with the traces of lacing reds,
heartbreaking yellows, and inviolable lavenders
from flowers that
eventually achromatize.
Your eyes are

like the night,
black aureoles
of knowledge,
glorifying the unknown,
hiding the trees and the ground, but
making their presence known in the darkness,
rushing out to greet in the subtlest of brown-green masses,
suggesting a watery domain.
Your eyes are

like the river,
swelling with
midnight bluish-olive ripples,
deceiving the banks with twigs and endless tides,
igniting nature and emotion,
prevailing the land with mystical healing,
a rapture of beauty, spirit, and change
full of inconstancy and depth.
Your eyes are.