Recumbent warm air
recedes under cool blankets of evening.
Crickets voice night with searching;
a dome of darkness encourages their song.
Fragrant pedals of color fold over
like melted silk; resting in repose
under a closed nights eye.
A lingering dying breeze crosses an open
porch, teasing a rocking chair into faint
motion; the floor creaks goodnight.
Roger Singer 