Nearly Summer Night
From the damp grass
silhouettes of cattails
stretch above fir and oak
also black, tucked neatly
beneath pastel brushstrokes
of a nearly summer sky
on a nearly quiet night.
Only the rustle and call
of unseen creatures,
voices that without intention
craft ballads to green grass
and lingering daywarmth.
Above
the leathery whisper
of a bat’s wings
seems touchable,
hovering terrifically close
to where we lay with head in hands
and hands in damp grass admiring
the silvery sliver of moon;
alone in dusky blues,
unable to hide her round shape
surrounded with nothing constant
but growth and time.
Peace hides within the inferior feeling
laying under the same stars
that we do not know
from lawns wet with tiny drops
unseen in the dark.
Peace nests quiet in the anticipation,
the tension between,
sweeter than summer itself,
when it arrives unannounced
and lays us down with no concern
for skin and clothes
that slowly soak in the constant earth.