This is the very best of times.
Green gardens ring with tingling chimes
of ice in tall drinks edged with lime.
The women wearing see-through clothes
wander pointedly unposed
in light sunglasses that disclose
a welcoming that seems to say
come hither more than go away.
There’s little stands in Cupid’s way.
The river’s bank invites, as fast
currents transport new-mown grass.
New lovers wonder will love last.
The winter’s sorrows fade away.
The cemetery’s lawns are gay
with small white flowers whose bouquet
preambles pleasures for these hours
when lovers pause between brief showers
to sun, and sample elfin powers
the summer serves. The lawn is warm
and beauty is a thin tanned arm
that, brushing mine, completes the charm.