Image Junkyard 1, Week 4

I tread cobble stone and brick whose mortar age has turned to sea foam, color of my wedding dress. I’ll wear it all soft green and sewn pearls, and under a year’s May sky, I’ll glint like glass lapped clean from sand, hand tracing yours, older, a hand that collects calluses like shells on an empty sun bitten afternoon in Sorrento. In Spoleto, though, far from the coast, even the roofs grow weeds and mold stains the terra cotta to sunset, orange, slate, coral. I’ll wear a pink rose in my reef of dark curls.