There has to be a language

of foliage

that eagerly consents

to a conspiracy

of wind

 

the slurp of holiday

rich on its tongue

as it tousles

flower grass sun

and attempts

 

to unhook

a fawning aspen

from the woman

with a book

cast in stone in love.

 

There are kites in the sky

even when

there are none

my gaiety half a streamer

your laughter one.

 

And just like that

one morning early fall

I found us both

in a photograph

seeking the day.