Two minutes to midnight.
All my windows open to the gentle
Scents of Summer, and the invation
Of winged insects drawn

Towards the single candle
On my living room glass table.
It's as if a pine stripper is dancing
On my lawn,

All perfume and movements that
Sound like breeze and innocent
Lust.
I want to make love to the outside.

Be inside it. Give something back to
These two magical months between
Winters, and at the same time
Worship; move with tears in my eyes

Within optimal actual love.
I smell green; hear dark blue; look
Into the sunset iris of night time
Posing as evening,

And pull words like aces out of my
Worn poetic sleeves, but this is my
Winter coat, and all I can think of is
Snow creaking like doomed souls under

The heel of Anti-Summer Herself.
Meanwhile, Odin and Buddah swing
From a tree in my garden.
All battle muscle and fat carelessness,

And I look out at them chatting
Like little kids on a playground, about
Everything and nothing, and how that's
All there is.

Their words sing to my ears like the
Up-beat hummingbird pulse
Of a newborn's heart, to a young mother's
Own.