In the spring, amid the tall grass the swamp grass on the outskirts of a wood,
he takes her paint smeared fingers;
sepia, crimson, vermilion branding ivory white skin
and presses each one to the curl of his mouth.
Sucking and biting as if longing for sustenance from her
myriad streaked silver veined hands;
she smiles with eyes that match the sky
and gives him all her strength.

In the summer, under the green leafed canopy she laces flowers in her hair
dances across the umber of the forest floor,
braids and ribbons streaming.
He watches with folded arms, flicking ash idly dreamily,
until she twirls to him
collapsing against his chest in a flurry of flesh and chiffon;
and he blesses her grace with kisses of wonder.

In the autumn by the dirt path on the leaf- strewn ground,
he plucks the last of the deep indigo blackberries from the brambles
and places them softly in her open mouth,
on her expectant tongue.
When the wind begins to blow too cold,
he wraps her in the warmth of his embrace,
and when he slips her dark stained tongue in his mouth
she tastes sweet yet bitter.

In the winter, in the white fields by the ice guarded cliffs
he will leave her.
Mystified with snowflakes caught in her hair,
she turns clutching her paint stained hands furiously to her heart.
Her hot breath swirls like wisps of smoke,
and through her freezing tears
she meets his lips once more with a hard and fast futility

Years later he will remember the taste of blackberries on warm lips,
the way paint-stained fingers pressed against his flesh,
the motions of a lover who twirled, ribbons flying,
across summer fields with flowers in her hair.
And she will haunt him always with
a ghost for every season.

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