at summer’s end,
as birch trees bend
in the breeze. And butterflies
flutter and tease. My hot breath

on the glass. The smell of
smoky crimson ash. Dew drop
pearls on rose petals. Dancing water in
stove-top kettles. His whispers dangle

in my garden. Like the hammock
hung in the yard in the nook
between the trees. I shook him off
in one tight squeeze.