My lover stands still; only her hair obeys
the breeze. She spares me both wind and sun—
tools for prudish townsfolk revelations.
She leans toward light and never caps her braids.
My lover stands tall. My cheek rests on her
hip bone, schoolboy deep in a summer fantasy.
She stays my clumsy touch, my fervency,
my bare feet planted on her toes, my wonder.
My lover’s arms extend above. They cross
themselves, while I shelter in place beneath
and ask: “What will the townsfolk think?” But, still
she hides me, holds me, keeps me calm though lost.
Our selves, lacking common tongue, can better breathe
than say affection. Here we stand, though I would kneel.
The featured image is by El Caminante on Pixabay.