June Swoon

The chill breeze, long awaited, finds its whisper

in the tall grasses,

tilting the hydrangeas, full and round, pink and purple

as the hewn lawn, more fragrant as dusk nears,

cushions the fawn,

the newborn to again perch precariously

atop unsteady spindles,

to weave through his mother’s legs as she pokes,

then slides through the brush.

And as I raise my brow over the hammock’s edge,

the squirrels hunch and chew and hop in unison

as they laugh quietly, my idleness risible,

before a third and final turn of the paragraph

renders me drowsy, the tome now abreast my breast

as a lazy arm falls without the swaying catch in surrender.