An Early Fall

I remember when we were children once,
we lay on the south slope of a hill
for two full hours in the full sun
tickling each other with the ripe grass
to see who would rub his nose first,
itch grown to lust in that delicate torture.

Caught in that eddy of warmth and quiet
deep in the frosty tumultuous day,
we suddenly knew that our hands were still,
and ripe in the sun we lost ourselves
in the wind curving around our nest;
our wide and thoughtless eyes let in
the sky, a brilliant cold blue,
with high white flocks of clouds moving
swiftly across it, migrating southward.

Lingering there, we burned with the grass
until, hiding our shamefaced eyes,
we collected ourselves, and hand in hand
we slowly wandered again home.