The sun smooths itself against the water
still gold in the cerulean morning,
the green curve of the ground
like the gold curve of her legs and her hips
as they smooth themselves
across the blue sheets, white pillows
like clouds, cumulating their softness
under the red-stained lips of her smile –
ivory and light in Lethean drips.

I sit on the black iron bench of her gaze,
wagging my tongue the way a phoebe
wags his tail, pumping myself
for a moment in the gold morning sun.
I smell the scent of her clothes,
daisies still dripping with spring
and I smile with an itch in my nose.

The water is smooth and the light is low,
still saturated with amber.
The lake calls to me with its peace;
she beckons with eyes and a finger.
I stand and stretch like a tree in the wind,
firm but ready to bend to her laughter,
Knowing things only dreamt before.