Morgan’s poem for City Girls

Summers in Layfield, we’re a different breed.

1. Sipping the morning air:

a blend of pine needles and strawberry toast and coffee,

2. I swing on my porch swing:

anchored between two white oak trees, the wood, damp from last night’s rain.

3. Silk green nightgown:

see-through sleeves etched with lace, just me and the wind, the wind insatiable for my skin, breathing on my breasts.

4. The mourning dove:

my longtime friend, perched on the railing, her cooing part of my meditation ritual.

5. Silvery blue grass:

my bare skin cupped, sweet, but rough, a morning lover who pushes my limits.

Layfield summers are sensual,

secluded from congested traffic and melted iced coffees

sweating on the dashboard.