Swimming in Late September

We listen:

the hush of apples falling through a dark,

the crackling of pines.

A slow wind circles the pond

like an ancient bird with leathery wings.

I float, my belly to the moon,

lifting my toes through cold, black water.

You brush against me, fanning your hair,

so close we are touching head to foot.

Frog-eyes sparkle in the ferns

as if they wonder

who would be swimming in late September.

Already the crickets have lost their wings;

the woods are brittle yellow.

But we go on swimming, swimming.

It is part of our love.

We give off rings of chilly waves

from one still center. Tonight

there is nothing but skin between us:

the rest is water.