ONE JULY EVENING


Evening was sheathed
                    in a collective stillness

neither twig nor limb,
                   flower or bush

so much as fluttered or swayed.
                   It was as if nature held its breath.

The scent of milkweed and hostas
                   lingered like a lover’s perfume.

Mosquitoes twirled in the moonlight
                   to the locked cadence of chirping crickets.

And as the summer day
                   unraveled itself for slumber

its protracted sigh fell over the yard
                    like a gossamer blanket

under which we could wiggle our toes
                     and giggle till sunrise