Trimmings

Tender white kid, off-white tan. Snug black leather, second
skin. Fits like a love, an utter other uttered. Bag of tricks,
slight hand preserved, a dainty. A solid color covers while
rubber is protection. Tight is tender, softness cured. Alive
and warm, some animal hides. Ghosts wear fingers, deli-cate
wrists.

* * *

Her feathers, her pages. She ripples in breezes. Rim and
fringe are hers. Who fancies frills. Whose finery is a sum-mer
frock, light in the wind, riffling her pages, lifting her
skirt, peeking at edges. The wind blows her words away.
Who can hear her voice, so soft, every ruffle made smooth.
Gathering her fluttered pages, her feathers, her wings.

* * *

Her ribbon, her slender is ribbon when to occupy her
hands a purse is soft. Wondering where to hang the keys
the moon is manicured. Her paper parasol and open fan
become her multiplication of a rib which is connected and
might start a fire for cooking. Who desires crisp vegetables,
she opens for the climate. A tomato isn’t hard. It splits in
heat, easy. It’s seasonal. Once in a while there is heat, and
several flowers are perennials. Roses shining with green-gold
leaves and bright threads. Some threads do wilt after
starching. She has done the starching and the bleaching.
She has pink too and owns earrings. Would never be
shamed by pearls. A subtle blush communicates much.
White peeks out, an eyelet in a storm.