At dusk on certain evenings

you will, quite unexpectedly, come

to an easy halt and, with the warm ground teasing your soles,

you’ll gaze vaguely

upon nothing in particular.

Pleasant fire flying, the warm

night air apparent, your skin smooth;

the linen strips, not clinging

but resting upon bronzed shoulder.

Look out,

and see nothing.

With welcoming eyes, rest.

Insects do not trace 'cross the brow

their giddy calendars.

Theirs are days yellow marked,

the buttercups their reminders.

Look out,

and, alone, be

thankful for what we share

with them (down there).

Close your eyes

and inherit all they’ve.

On certain evenings, I’ve heard,

on some distant peer,

a band plays simple, lovely things,

and wafting down to you,

drops like honeyed breeze,

sweet life.


smitty said...

very nice. : - )