Time through palm strokes speaks.
When days resign to dark
and dank succumbs to drought,
you'll come round. The unleavened
skin of Paradise, lips and eyes
wide with snow. The East Gate,
static with dearth and wild flowers.
Wimple my face - consider
the Lost Pleiad and chance mitosis.
But know this: I am no hypotenuse.
A new wife! From your rib! Ha.

Janée J. Baugher