Under a roof of rhododendron, in
nearly-summer, and the soft rain sounded
on the leaves, slight fever of storm above
the oaks, but down against the ground it was
all shiver and cool earth, damp legs and yes
again, it was close your eyes and sleep some
in the filigreed green, branches arching
dirtward and the dirt clinging, the body

wanting that bed and its long memory
(of the petals rotting into its lap
of the sweet little deaths of animals)
even as it wants to awaken now,
fingers seeking earrings, a button, loosed,
rising again just as the sun comes clean.