to fading rays. I recall
New England speaker shy to lover
probably summer blonde
like you glistening tawny
in sun-streaked open pose:
I'm going to clean the pasture spring,
rake leaves away, maybe
linger as cloudy water clears;
I shan't be gone long. You come too."
He planned to fetch a calf so young
it tottered under mother's lick
the way your shivers quicken
when I nuzzle kisses up your sides.
"You come too," he whispered a second time.
I wonder if lover seized that chance
took outstretched hand
for one hour left tedious chores
behind, tromped arm and waist
with him away together
spongy meadow grass imprinting love
as they strolled, two yet one
passing afternoon under shadowed willows
glistening white. Or did she too
allow burdens, not quite trivial
not yet mundane, to clog spring
again choke pasture grass, say
"Sorry, much to do before summer comes"?
I hope he smiled, knew muddied water
bawling calf, meadow also waited
tending. I hope he managed
one more "Won't you come too?"
just before the leaving.