She reminds me of the farm where I spent
my childhood days
smelling of tobacco incessantly --
sweet, always Fall in her arms,
with colors softly swirling, maple
and oak mingling in her hair
sticking as to the wood in the
cracks of the old barn, splashes
of reds & yellows against the
aged grey of the decaying walls,
with streaks of red from the
rust which runs with every rain
coloured as her hair through my fingers,
soft (unlike the barn)