sunlight lips
haven't brushed her skin
as harsh today
& the valley behind corporate
America
doesn't smell as vile

she longs to pick wildflowers
& gentle silence from this
green shelf
& take them home to her
sweet boys

if only the rush of autumn
were enough to quell
trouble

the insects still greet
her skin
with urgency
& she still greets
her days far too late and
lazy for comfort
we call her
The Midsummer's Lass
the one who'd be grand if
she'd get off her--

well, you get the picture
where the paint is still dripping
& she only has the energy
to dab a few spots

in a comparative sense
all is grand
when pinned beside last year's
endeavors:
an unhappy heart
a verbally broken home
& an unrequited pining that
seemed painfully
permanent

it was around then that
The Wild Blue Yonder-Eyed Boy
emerged from the garish
sun-stricken sky
to stake his claim in
Mother Earth's
weary embrace for
eternity

his breath continues
to thwart away drought
& death
his skin is her
lullaby
their hearts will always carry
a heaviness of sorts,
for such are their dreamy spirits,
forever in search of a better
land instead of the
mundane
& nerve-aching

but their love
oh, love

is
a season all of its own