Becca
 
Marigolds hide familiar paths
where September tarries for Becca.
Winds antique the hem of her garment.
Spirits, warm, blue-matched to the sky
weave her hair to sea-scented ringlets, 
which breathe her mother's fingerprints.
A coronal is turned from the divine.
A journeyman leaves the four sides
of all his souls; stands where crepe
falls from crescent
and calls from the eddy.
Evening's eyes, covered by amber veils,
kohl-lined, fall to sleep in degrees,
one by one.
Musing carries to completion
when Becca takes his hand, late,
near the graves
where fairies come together,
crying, before the geranium.