Spring in Montana, Pt. 2

If you don't like the spring weather, wait five minutes.
It might change, or you might start to see something in it.
When the sun is still low and the colors are deep,
I see mirrored in the sky my love's lips as she sleeps.
As the young day matures and the sunrise grows old,
The sky rises from lips to her hair, brilliant gold.
I like nothing more than to spend lazy days
Staring up into the sun-whitened haze
That recalls the sublimely pale, muted, fresh
Beauty of my lover's young, un-sun-marred flesh.
If the wind and sun come to drive out the mist,
and the last clouds disappear in a curtain of wisps,
I see in slow motion my love's shaken hair
As it's parted and played by the winds that are there.
Then, as evening's sun half-lights the air,
The deep, stormy blue of my lover's eye's there.
If the day's light fades in dark, stormy skies,
I'll imagine the shadow between those white thighs.
The night brings possibilities, sight unseen.
There's not a place or time in this world I'd rather be.