By: Julia Nunnally Duncan
When you took my arm and guided me down the bank
to keep me from slipping on leaves and loose soil,
I saw the boulder, like a monolith,
upon which we would rest.
The hemlock’s limb lowered to shade us,
the creek whispered to us to enjoy its music,
and the woods watched us
as we lay on our cool, moss-quilted bed.
I touched your face as you leaned over me,
your fair throat exposed by unbuttoned flannel,
and then I glanced at the sky,
blue peeping through Virginia pines.
Tops of oak trees swayed and dipped in the breeze,
as if lost in their own pleasure.
Julia Nunnally Duncan lives in Marion with her husband Steve, their daughter Annie, and their border collie Bandit. They enjoy spending time together, hiking in the woods and fishing at their pond. Julia’s poems have been collected in two books An Endless Tapestry and At Dusk. Her latest book is Drops of the Night, a novel rereleased by March Street Press in 2011.