Summers Long Lost
I crave the dark, the stars, the waxing moon.
I crave the warmth of a short summer night
sweeping me off my feet. I crave the sound
of crickets and the soft sough of the wind
in the leaves of the apple trees, the soft
blurs in the long grass: clover and Shasta
daisy, scenting my wandering bare feet.
I crave the dark silhouettes of house, trees,
gate, the comforting strength of wall and well
and wide stone path. I crave all the night sounds,
the hunting chirp and cry of a vixen,
the squeal of her lucky escaping prey,
the soft query of an owl, the confused
flutter of songbirds safe at rest. I crave
the sensual scent of the wild roses
winding tales in the dark, the feel of the
moon soaking deep into my grateful skin.