The Hot Place
In your backyard,  alone my lover

Quiet darkness.
The chill in the air smells luxurious.
The sky above, with flickering stars
Between the pines was deepest indigo.
I am alone with your soil.
Crickets sing to me.
Ivy is my cushion.
The moon was a flower.
I think here, anything could grow.

-Lisa King

Oct. 2001