Bullrushes in a rush to grow,
robins bobbing on the lawn,
I spy along the lookout,
lovers, hand in hand, let go, go on,
lean into their longing—kiss.
Under prying eyes and mountain ash
too bare for private screening,
light as the brush of an eyelash,
touching lips, fingertips, tongues
teasing hunger, stop seeking—cling.
Breeze and song brings us to our sense
outside ourselves, where, a flirting pair,
circles the air, suspends, beating wings,
drawing three stares, two unaware
the third one is there. A fourth?—wink.
© Helga Ross 2008