Wyoming

Wisps of fuchsia, streaks of violet
blend the mountains with the sky.
Green fields spontaneously stained by amber,
patches of clover, and the weeds tumble by.
All the buildings are made of mud,
with wooden stairs and rooftops;
somewhere distant, childlike laughter
floats like birdsong and masks your footsteps.
Thin cotton drapes my figure,
blown gently by the breeze;
I am reminded of childhood memories,
running barefoot beneath the trees.
You lie down beside me
and push the hair from around my eyes,
talking gently, always quiet,
whisper sweetness, speak hushed lies.
Your hand is grazing beneath soft cotton,
claiming to be displaced by wind;
childhood innocence slowly fading,
I open my eyes and let you in.