Golden thorns and amber are in the honeysuckle sangria like bees. Pine needles bleach their emerald fezes blonde. Gold is in the wind: peach wine and myrr with honey.
Glitter on the still, olive oil
creek, deep holy green
like the glass of bottles filled with sparkling water.
Deep holy green, like allspice summer in hospice fading. Anise star and nutmeg curl summer up, like steam, as she takes her last breath.
Nonplussed. Prose. 