saturday, gale and marble

saturday's unhappy

she cried
for you this morning

made the sky-sweeps
limp

and the moss squish
soggy

you see

gale just stomped
past the sun
with veins rippling across
her eighth ball

but
don't worry

she'll bake dry
matted fingers
comforting you

coax open
clinched fists

to tickle
ankles of firs

shading
your name
etched in marble