this is indian summer

this is indian summer:
sepia ink on my wrists,
the dusted monarch wings
resting on your extended palms
face up toward the cool sky
and the rogue moon that brushes
against your flushed cheeks
as you dance with a grown ocean,
landing with lavender and
half-turned leaves.
it is the finger dipped in batter,
the first delicate step into
a lightly bocca-ed rain,
nails navy blue and lashes
curling with laughter, slim fingers
round a coffee cup i fill
and fill again to hear my name
upon your lips, & eleven-morning
sun on a street burned gold,
shadows matching and smoothing
the frayed edges of my hope.
it is your Michigan Americana folk song
smile, gifted.
this is my return to your unaware;
the architecture of my autumn.