The iron seat, though painted white,
would stain our clothes with rust,

and the embarrassment of golden mud
causes a certain hesitancy.

We look at flowers,
sniff the ocean breeze,
dip our toes into pollen-
coated streams.

Alone with desire. Flanked by azaleas.

We lie in sweetly-scented springtime
down beneath the magnolia
by invitation of the grass.

first published in Independence Boulevard