Copper

I know copper.
It’s a different
kind of red, a
passion cloaked
in caramel waves
or autumn
leaves lit by
late afternoon’s
gentle hope.

I know it is
weighed in palms
or scales of
lesser metals
used, flattened
pounded, bent
to a purpose
hidden in pipes
below surface.

But I promise
with lesser eyes
to only gaze at
rivers richly
mudded that
pour down a
mountain like
the laugh
of a girl or the
glint of a child’s
chestnut curls.

I know copper.
How it changes
when caged to
a stranger green

free, it
paints
bright
rivers
through
a heart
unseen.

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