there were words,
these beautiful
words, and they were
floating into the air;
they were distant
echoes to you though,
gravitating somewhere
near the back of
your conscious.

and then,
"too much treble"
(means too much
trouble… but for
whom?)

we drove through
the harvest land,
with its bluegrey
skies of ripple-
clouds, leaves
letting go of their
branches, and the
cool twilight breeze
swirling around our
bodies—

we danced along the
pavement, with
mittencovered hands,
pink cheeks,
warm lips.