Insects flit along our path.

I walk closer to feel you

brush against me.

From a lemony cluster

you pluck a feathery plume

press it against my thigh like a

golden hand print.

In hushed whispers we vanish

in the mist of blonde foothills.

Leafy ferns stroke our arms,

release us from earth’s gravity.

As the sun wheels backwards

I tie its rays to your wrist,

carry you home like goldenrod.