thunderstorms in june
he threads daisies
through her wet hair
he wraps bindweed
around her bruised neck

two young lovers,
hiding from the world
in a glistening meadow,
muddy bodies tangled
on a muddy blanket

her, a siren of the suburbs
with berry stained lips
lays with her apollo
with eyes of august honey
and a rifle instead of a bow

pulling bugs out of each others hair
wondering if life will always be like this
or if it will change
and how these memories
will feel in the distant future

as the chorus of crickets begins again
after the storm has cleared
the sun descends like a halo
we can't be late
it's time to go