Four Rainbows on the Sea

I tend the ancient lines each day
here in the isolation chamber
close to the wild heart
of poppies so bright they sing.

Somewhere there is snow
a hummingbird rests impatiently
on your hand as you replenish nectar,
a bow moves across strings.

A sound as lazy summer
grass sounds in the wind.
There might be a book
that holds all this chaos of delight.

An old black truck
covered in pink blossoms out front,
apples and pumpkin flowers.
I've tried letting go

but the lines need tending.
Lineament of land,
your hand,
the shape and contour of it all

holds me close, close now,
memory. Not so long ago
someone made these lines.
Could it have been us?