Rooftop dreams at midnight are a drug.

---

There’s something about lying

on a shadow-spotted roof,

looking up in wonder at the gray-blue sky

to see the stars light up

and waltz with the leaves.

---

A stirring emotion:

A wild, primal emotion,

That comes from the streetlamps and starlight

On a bare leg, and white shoulder, and dark hair.

From flowers and branches whispering night-secrets

(and who cares for ninety-degree April days, when

secret pockets of cool, sensuous nights

spray the sun-drugged days with romance?)

---

anything can happen

to that dreamer inside of me, straining to get out

catching the stars in her eyes

as the wind sweeps against her bare skin.

A certain adrenaline: quiet, subtle,

exhilarating.

---

Perfume filters through the leaves:

There is but the scent of the flowers and roots and green things

And a little of me:

Sweet perspiration, lotion, and shampoo,

That stain the virgin night with dreams.

---

pines sway, dancer-like,

as dogwoods rustle their reply, and I wonder:

what unspoken secrets do they share above the streetlights?

they know, of course, that to wait out

the dry, deathly sun, unmoving in the still, crackly air—

they know that it’s worth it,

just to be able to drink in the perfume of the wind,

and the feel of the breeze,

and the secrets of the stars,

(for who cares for ninety-degree April days, when

secret pockets of cool, sensuous nights

spray the sun-drugged days with romance?)

---

16 April 2006