- The Index -
We lie midst summer's offerings
of foliage and flowers,
inhaling the comings and goings
of dying petals falling to some forgotten fate.
The cricket trills
accompanying the murmuring melody
of the season's last lyrical lark.
No word is spoken;
no stately silence shattered.
Nothing but the plaintive sound
of breezes delicately dusting my cheek.
Our lives are floating
with only the faraway lilt of the gentle bird song.
the stillness is broken,
but only to make the moment complete…
it is the light traced touch
Of your lips on mine.