Sitting in Golden Green

A poem on a warm orchard day.

It’s warm, even for September. 
The earth is turning and rotating and still, 
this angle of the sun toasts my skin. Crickets
are in the long grass, the last of cicada song 
humming in the air. 

We pull into the orchard pie pantry. 
Crowds mill around for their bottles of cider,
a deli sandwich, a dozen frosted donuts. She
is watching everything, her small hands
holding me tight. 

The trees are waiting for us.
A blanket under their cooling limbs, we
eat our picnic and let the baby crawl on
our laps. She is busy and bright, an apple
growing on a branch. 

Tables would be nice, we think.
We are watching others lounge and drink
chilled cocktails on wood chairs. They are
not chasing a crawling child -- are lazily 
sunning their faces.

Our two eyes meet in a glance. 
Looking down at her round face, pleased
and flushed with autumn's air; there can
be nothing better. We three together
sitting in golden green. 

---