The world is at a standstill.
The
seasons neither retreat nor advance
on
this July evening at the lake
by
the summer house that is ours
for
the week, even the mosquitos
too
lazy to get a good buzz on.
The
sky rolls into dark blue, then black.
The
boat drifts to the middle of microcosm,
my
love cradled in the crook of my arm
as
we lie prostrate and behold first the stars
and
then the silver coin of moon
as
it rises and paints the quiet water
with
its version of mid-summer.
A
small wind rises, rocks the boat by inches,
and
she is on top of me, eyes closed,
naked
as she moves in rhythm
to
the waves, the breeze.
The
moon has disappeared,
revealing
the constellations, the stars.
And
then we are face to face,
side
by side before turning
to
see that we are once again
beneath
sensual Luna, who blesses
our
silent joining and the kisses
that
will remain when the lake is frozen
in
the dark skies of December.
~William Hammett
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