Paint the Trees

You’re armed; I can feel it.
Stroking bark through stained glass
with a horsehair brush
and earth-toned acrylics,
deftly assaulting nature in sepia,
I freeze
as sage cotton senses you
behind me.
“Hands up!” you breathe,
a rigid finger painting pointillism
on my canvas of vertebrae. You belong in
the dungeons of the Louvre.
Never one for sentiment,
I brush your thoughts aside
with a sweep of blue.
Slowly you step
through my autumn secrets,
through my knee-deep
pile of red acorns and fallen twigs.
Jaw set, your fingers
bleed purple honey.