Hot spring-nearly-summer golden hours,

the slow heat under your skin, soft,

child-like time spent as sweat skims down

your back, your arms damp with it and yet,

slow wind stirs and we rest. Eyes up,

trees creak and whisper, long white birch arms

drape, ruffled with leaves, and if you still yourself

to childhood dreaming, you can see white dryads

and nymphs, lazing in summer heat,

their long white limbs burning with warmth

as the slow wind stirs up ancient memory

with a long, unyielding heat.