Sunlight would kiss
each thread of my pillow
tenderly on early spring mornings,
and the wood grain of your kitchen cabinets
would imitate my fingerprints.
While the rays streaked in slanted rows on fertile fields,
highlighting wrinkled hollows where the cotton grows,
I'd pray,
as shy and subtle flecks of iris emerged
between dew-moistened fringe in apple groves.

Now the day is filtered
into yellow-orange lights, and I sigh
through refined air, chilly as those who breathe it.