I see in the cream of my coffee. It’s the
porcelain that holds the coffee. I drink your face
every morning as the sun is dawning. I see
it the mirror. It couldn’t come in any clearer

than the sunniest day in the country. Your
face is the sun that warms me. Your eyes are
the blueberry bushes in the meadow. I fill my dress
up with little globs of them. They stare at me and

play hide and seek getting lost in the folds,
getting squashed as I roll over to lay on
the grass. As I lay, I see your face pass in the
wind. It blows my long, golden hair across

my chin. It tickles me and I smile. I fall asleep
drunk on blueberry juice. My dream is another excuse
to see your face. It smells like lavender and honey and is
soft as a bushy-tailed bunny that tramples over me

and wakes me from my afternoon reverie. And
there it is again. Your face is in the clouds and laughing
in the thunder. I stretch my arms and wonder what it is
you’re going to do.  I reach my arms up to the sky in hopes  

to catch it as it goes by. But all I catch of it is your tears
as you release them in the rain. And now I see the pain
there on your face. I hang my head and cry with
you. The blueberries weep too and stain my dress blue.