Elizabeth Taylor

This is where I’d rather be, 

amongst the forest and its greener pine trees,
walking through woods we walk
with the bells of bridesmaids ringing in the eaves;
the sky is gray and
cascades in and out of lunchtime consciousness,
it knows our footprints before we know our footsteps
though it cannot know how hard I’m holding your hand,
melding slowly with non-brushed off coastal sand,
neither does it know that you’re the girl with Taylor hair
whom wears blue-lined shirts with white pencil
stitched up skirts.

But Certainty overruled with cool hand
to teach me that reality assembles on foundations
thoughts are built on imitation expectations:
but the Taylor haired girl exists.