That One Sunday, in August ’94, When Nature said, “Nature says.”

Heat rises from your supine body
like vapor-stream watercolors, translucent.
The little death threatens to take us home,
where colder comforts lie.
Before then we lie under the consummate shade
of high-boughed oaks.
Like a rope swing, low and loose,
hair catching leaf bits and broken acorn.
A late summer breeze blankets us.
Afternoon sunlight beyond the trees.

That One Sunday, in August ’94, When Nature said, “Nature says.”

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