by Jessica Mcafee

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The soft rolls of green

sway like the tips of boats,

or ripple like pond water.

Green, billowing, a soft pillow

for the white tummies of does.

It folds and curves to the horizon until it

fades into azure.

 

Slouched in the shade of the Climbing Tree,

he stares, waiting, for the strict sun to meet the earth.

Here he feels the wind as though diving

through the crisp, pellucid pond.

Here he listens to songless birds,

the shimmer of the red oak’s leaves,

here, where time slows.

 

And through the green a boy wades

as crickets whir,

as the sky blushes orange,

Queen Anne’s Lace spilling from his fingers,

here, where they don’t have to whisper,

“I love you.”