"The middle of summer..."

The middle of summer. The rustling leaves.

Color saturates all. And the darks grow deeper.

And the greys turn silver. The pavement breathes,

just barely audible now, like a heavy sleeper.

She's out in her house shoes, watering roses.

I watch from the porch with my coffee in hand.

I am under hypnosis.

Her outline is smeared and I can’t comprehend

how this all came to be, - and by this I mean all -

our positions in space, our positions in time,

our possessions in both, and I try to recall

by what virtue of fortune she’s here and she’s mine.