Leaves
It was
August.
The trees
looked like
fading bruises.
We took one
last swim in
the stream
by the house,
ignoring dead
leaves and
floating bug
corpses.
I watched
you
rest in my
oldest peeling
lawn chair,
scratching
mosquito
bites only when
absolutely
necessary.
The smell
of
hibiscus tea
warmed my
vision of you,
until I lost
my head and
asked you
to stay the winter.
Copyright © 2001 Cate Compton
