John Middlebrook

In the season of naked arms,
lovers stroll slowly,
and closely pass
our front porch. They are
detached from us as the stars.

Their whispers carry clearly
and crisply weave
between the creaks
of swings in yards,
and the closings
of old screen doors.

As the luminous curtains
of evening fade,
the couple floats
through the dusk
in rapt levitation --
as locked as the rhythmic
hymn of crickets.

In the lingering embrace
of summer´s waltz, they sway,
for a moment, beneath a heaven
belonging only to them.