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Barbara Crooker
Deep,
deep in the long green days of summer, the crescendos
of heat bugs rising in the noon sun, the hot air, thick as a lakeâ
So far into this marriage, like a John Deere harvester in a field of corn,
a small green island planted right in the middle of everythingâ
Even the grass on the lawn breathes longing,
the complicated chemistry of light into sugarâ Sometimes, I feel
the small hairs on my arm rise, ionic as the air before a stormâ
And you are the clapper, and I am the bell cast in bronze around you.
Before we slip into sleepâs black waters, we set the golden tones ringing,
ripples of moonlight falling on the bed sheets and quilt, our bodiesâ music in the dark.
Copyright (C) Barbara Crooker, 2005.All Rights Reserved.
Previously appeared in print in Solo.