my fingers tracing skin,
lower back to upper thigh,
roundness eager to bend.
Edges. Corners. Even the words
do not yield, instead
bring aggression to life,
lie menacing, fecund with force,
speak ill of humans because little
in nature has a sharp edge.
Granite tips round slightly,
flat sides of leaves curve, merge
with subtlety we ignore.
Leaves do not impose will,
only flutter in harmony,
cloud-like, bowing, curling,
creating roundness, autumnal pose
without resistance, seasons spent
not knowing how to use force.
Clouds have no edges.
They make no design on the sky.