the night is in its summerling state
someplace inbetween the end of spring
and the beginning of summer
the scent of rain and newness
of mud and worms and thawing
has taken the shoulder tap
and let the soft scents of blossoms
sweetgrass and bugspray
have the next dance
they will love like this the season
when it is not too warm or too cold,
dancing as if they do not know
that as the days move
the twinkling lights of fireflies
and bonfires
and the rhythm of cicadas
and stringed crickets
will give way to the sound of the thresher
come fall,
when the apples have swollen
and the next hand reaches
toward the dance
with a scattering of leaves
in her wake.