Lately, I walk alone
where the white weed
of aging dandelions
have moved to multiply
and spread their pillowy seed.
I brush by and with my stride
disturb their light heads.

They weave over lawns
in wispy waves
that quick cascade
like a hand over skin
before the summer sweat
of sleep adheres one body
to another.

Wtih my cheek
against the murmur
of hair on your chest
and my mouth aimed
at the sticky hollow
of your stomach,
I breathe to cool
the heat that threatens
to creep east - the coast
that claims you
until this soft season turns
you on your side and puts you
beside me.

06/06/2004

Author's Note: I solemnly swear I will not write "I miss you" poems all summer. ::holds hand over heart:: Also, temporary title. I think.

Posted on 06/07/2004
Copyright © 2025 Christina Gleason