Your Eyes. Poem by Ms. Queenie

dark's sparks aren't meant to exist
in blue and black
red and orange
flames as raw
as the ones i have seen
under trees
outside of brick and cement
that meaning
purity is wrought from the
hard earth
unrelenting ground musk
soft dirt and
spattered blue shell pieces
that weave so seamlessly
with their counterparts
they get lost in the
rich brown whiskey
tint of your fathomless
seer's orbs
left over warmth
rays of sun trapped
delighted
and bathing in
contentment
as your eyes play with them
residual laughter
echoing over
sunkissed emerald tendrils
waving breezily
just for a touch
they are coffee
and rich
and warm
they tighten
and release
as waves of the sea do
but underneath
they are firm ground
soft
determined
your eyes