Dappled splinters of a Sunday
sun fragment
through a
chestnut tree and we lie
beneath it serenely. I stroke your
arm, the smoothness of it
another breeze
moving
blossom from one place -
one state of mind - to the
next.
Atoms of clouds of miniscule
May-Flies mingle in the
space we inhabit together; I
stroke your arm you stroke
mine. You look at me
and
smile; I know just what you’re
thinking. Because I
am
thinking the
same thing.
Blossom falls into our space.
