Desire

Desire

The leaves on the sugar maple
burn vibrant orange.
Sparks of yellow
and extravagant crimson
explode into moments
of fire-fall embers.

And we forget
everything,
stop and draw near,
willing to be singed
by the fevers of autumn.

Words and photos are copyright Carol Steel.

Desire

Desire

On the door frame,
white paint hangs like a pout
then peels
in slow slivers.

The afternoon sun nibbles
a little each day.
Nothing is left
except naked wood
and a few curls of paint quivering
beneath the sun's breath.

The door frame cannot resist
the sun's fingers,
cannot say no
to its searching touch
and scorching kisses.

I know this.
I know the paint will swell
and give way,
will split and open.

The sun's caress
is so insistent
and delicious.

As I paint,
I feel the sun
behind me
pulsing, rounding with desire.

I know my bristles
will not stop
its hunger.