Thirty Days Of Julia: Day One

Did I conjure her from cigarette smoke
and supermarket own-brand bitter, or
summon her from winter sunlight silvered
ripples and brown-feathered flurry upon
the lake? She was not perfect as virgin
frost on the forest path at dawn, yet walked
in a fey procession of advancing
mist. Her hair, tight-braided, cracked the icy
pane of air with whips of hemp and henna.
Her eyes reflected the blue sheen of my
fingernails. Her lips flared Swan Vesta red
when she asked me for a light. I held my
breath and suppressed a belch as last night's beer
burned brighter in my heart than fires of love.