The afternoon sun

Is filtering through

The leaves of

A great and ancient

Oak.

Under its bower we recline

Shoeless atop a hand-pieced quilt,

You with your head

Upon my lap

And me with my fingers

Sifting slowly

Through your hair.

The remains of our picnic

Are shoved to one side,

Save for two plastic glasses,

A half-full bottle of wine,

And a few left over wedges

Of fine domestic cheese.

We are replete from our feast

Yet insatiable

For each other;

But still we linger

In this very public place,

Drawing out the moment,

Intensifying our anticipation,

Knowing what ecstasy

Awaits us

As soon as the kids

Go to bed

Tonight.