His soft, auburn hair Curls across the linen pillow Like the silken skin Of the twisted manzanita tree She touched on that cold morning When they met upon the mountain. He fell in love with her In that moment when she Revealed her secret, poetic self Her hand sliding down the red bark, As now her hand slips Through the tangled waves of his hair. I'm not your door he whispers, Staring coldly at the ceiling, I won't be scorched by your desire. Her chastised hand withdraws And as they lie in silence She can only think of his skin, Sliding across her, silken and warm And how it will never quite Make her forget what she can never be For they are both too young to know Her burning is not a weakness but a birthfire. ©  1985 J.L.Stanley

Manzanita