you are the open window in an elsewhere, rustic, countryside summer
where drowsy bumblebees rest contentedly by the pollen-speckled glass
and little emerald drops of shy foliage sometimes dare to cautiously peek in
before the shooing breeze languidly billows them all out to heaven knows where
luminous sunshine glows ardent on tan skins and pales against cotton curtains
a curious puppy might loll its head lazily about and bark at scampering squirrels
and the sticky rose vanilla soda gives way to the thawing rivulets down my blouse
perhaps i’ll rise from my wicker chair and have a nap soon—or perhaps just five more minutes.