pollen hands

thick saffron dust covering the florist's long fingers, staining first the white basin of the sink, then the soap, later the towel. the faint yellow line on her cheek, from brushing hair aside, and the small golden fingerprints across your body from where she tries to wake you up, the traced outline on the mirror from post-shower bathroom cabinet art, the tinge to every bill folded and unfolded in line at the grocer while waiting to buy tomatoes. the door handle of your car, the bar tape of the bike, the smear across the living room window where she leans in to see out