Suns to Store and Hoard

from Almost Everything, Almost Nothing

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September light slides like honey
through tuscan curtains.
Your hand on my hip,
           I wake in the slow dawn —
warm, the bed where we lie.

Goldfinches squabble in butterscotch leaves
of the oak, tug petals from paling zinnias.
           Caramel-colored shadows shift.
Bumblebees have vanished,
delighting in lands of pineapples, bananas.

But here, lemon-colored kayaks racked,
poplars and butternut wrinkle from green to gold,
mustard and flax beckoning . . . .
           Sighing, you turn, hand tightening,
keeping me from the fall.