by Carmella T. Penny
He looks like trees
in wintertime;
cold and tall, slim—
and hard.
He smells like leaves
and winter pine,
spicy, crisp-clean
backyard.
He sounds like caves
at twilight time,
rumbling deep, soft—
and dark.
He feels like breeze,
the fresh sublime;
light hugs, Fall gray—
but scarred.