apple cider
 is the same color
 as the memories of the mill;
 of the shining green river,
 the tangled roots above ground,
 the cobblestone walkway,
 of the dragonflies on stemmed stilts.
 i would love to lie down
 in the soft grasses
 next to the water
 and rest my eyes for a time,
 just until the sun sets—
 but my sense tells me
 that i would sleep for far longer,
 until the trees reach
 into the heavens
 and my hair turns to moss. 

By Heather Drouse