david-hamilton-demoiselles-via-paper-ice-cream3Cream walls
curl into ox-blood
and the fields beyond
are washed with sunlight
like women whose hands grow
red with cold labor
look more alive
and bright-eyed
than at any other time
cast in glow
for just a season
of matriculating color
imprisoned briefly
in scattering memory
like fragile white seeds of
dandelions catching against
the thirsty sun