There is her fret of pout and stare.
Off into the early Evening elms,
Littered with starlings,
Noisily jostling for night warmth.
It seems subtle, yet subtle is a tricky
Word. S-U-B-T-L-E: suttle. See?
How cleverly hard.
Gentle push, indiscernible hint.
Subtly the smoke curls from her fingers.
Softening light sleeps along her pale wrist.
Green spring peepers whistle in chorus.
Faint breath of breeze brushes hair.
At last she mutters her timid apology,
A secret code, thrust bare into
Early evening air, as feathered rows cloak
Black branches, and she leans into me – subtly.