I watch her from the windows
of her parent’s house—

through the stained-glass memories
of pomegranate and yarrow,

tea coloring leaking
pheromones and salt.

I watch her from where I am,
there is music in our veins,

in our hands
and in our breath

and we are alone together.

The summer becomes the fall
but doesn’t recognize itself.

I hold her in my arms
watching shades through the window.

The maple-leaf hands
have gone green to yellow

like pears left out
turning yellow to brown.

We bury ourselves
in the winters of each other

and don’t come out
until the frost has thawed.

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Eli Coyle holds a MA in English from California State University-Chico and an MFA in creative writing from the University of Nevada-Reno. His poetry and prose have recently been published or are forthcoming in: Harpur Palate, The Normal School, Permafrost Magazine, Sierra Nevada Review, and The South Carolina Review among others. He currently teaches at the University of Nevada, Reno and spends his summers bartending in North Lake Tahoe.