~ ~ ~
Early dawning uncurling
tender leaf, and opening sweet bud bursting
through the barren bark in rising heat of midsummer’s new life
springing. Canadian geese honk, circling overhead in croaking conversation,
to and from the warm lake where they’re still feeding
and nurturing their half-grown young.

We know that no one wants
to cook toward the end of this scorching
steaming dried-grass day; so in a curtain-laced golden
kitchen the crock pot begins, with fresh cool water, plump beans,
red meat, pepper medley, fragrant chives, and cumin -
a different brand of heat.  This
day has three.

Late in the day,
scents of spices linger and wander,
as afternoon rides a long teeter-totter across
dappled sunlit meadows; and through the humming
cicadas our soft fleshed moans and fires melt and meld us, as one

brilliant ripened crimson canna plunges from the rich moist
earth to meet the sun; pungent aromas rising
in passion’s breezes...
~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~
I open my eyes...
and across the bed, you peek through your
long lashes; “isn’t this heat awful?” you murmur, and I nod,
becoming aware that it was just another
broiling summer’s luscious
dream.

You sleepily reach out
a slender, long dear finger, and we
hold fingers for the seconds until they sweat -
when we let go, smiling soft smiles
into each others’ souls.
Another
day
.
.
.
there will be.
~ ~ ~