Gray is my soul

I would write this book.
Then climb this tree.
I’d find sea glass
and tell you their secrets.
The green is soda and death.
The red is blood and life.
You’d know in the crook of your arm
why I love you so.
I’d write this tree and climb this book
And lick you clean like the barn cat
I met in North Carolina, older than the hills.
You’d know me because for once I’d have
nothing to hide. I’d tell the truth, though
I’ve not much practice with such things.
I’d find you some sea glass — gray is my soul
broken but still alive.