Late Summer

Late summer when the world,

saturated in energy, hanging

on the cusp of freefall into

cool, Autumn lethargy;

when the lifetime of flowers

has moved into middle age,

when day lilies open brightest,

and the rose and the orchid persevere;

in ardent vigor shed their scent onto

slow light and charged, languid air.

To stand there in the long light

drunk on the light, wrapped in her hair

full of the promise that change will come

but not yet, meantime rest

my head upon her breast

golden-green and soft

as living earth can be

full of her breath, held

drawn in quivering wonder

toward her brazen mystery