That day, the air

a lavender breeze stroking
             the neck of a woman.  The woman,
a flower on the summer lawn.   The
             lawn, needled and bending
into the soil. The soil, a sponge
             waiting for the moisture of love.
Love, which is hanging, an unpicked
             apple on a nearby branch.   The branch,
arced out like an arm stretching
             out to the man.   The man, who
is walking to the woman who
             is waiting for him in the lavender air.

  Francine Witte