I came for Solstice,

seeking the sun, low and forgiving

in the sky, seeking the lines on your face

to mark the smiles of my passing.

I came to be ablaze in the late afternoon,

to feel beauty once more course through

my body, to wash myself in soft light,

to be washed in your gaze.

I know there are rocks to be picked;

I know there are fences to be mended;

I know the fields wait, dark and patient

under the overgrowth;

but I'm listening

to the crickets and the katiedids;

I'm running barefoot across the pasture,

dark green and bronze;

and I'm thinking on the contrast of your farmer's tan

and my own capable heart.