You find me

in the old wash tub

on the porch.

Sweet peach balm

place your hand

on my lucid thigh.

A bucket of braeburns

wait their turn

in the bath water.

You laugh at my interest

for a bob, your face

in the water.

The old hound sleeps

through most things,

especially this romance.

Excuse my blush,

my apple red cheeks,

as I walk bare beamed

into the yard, the hammock

full in the direct sun,

instead of toweling with cotton.

A shovel awaits its chores,

along with the burlap sacks,

nine types of carrots, potatoes.

You rub an apple clean

upon your soft, pink shirt,

bite, then join me.