On you, atop sun baked August skin,
pausing on the hot licks of fine salt glow,
melting in the bountiful taste of been.

Tracing time, stroking you deftly, the pin
peak of caramel mound, dawdling so,
sensing the passionate grace of been.

Beating water and dirt into froth din,
wrought into the creek side bed, echo,
waking trees with the sound of been.

Rivulets grow sultry veins, begin
a breathing, an effortless pulsing, go
crossing the seam of all that has been,

reflecting the willowy heart therein,
birthing an eternal sepia glow
into the bountiful mind of been.

Memory ripens and turns well downwind,
the abundant sweetness of was does flow
like the blowing leaves and the fishes fin.
We were the bountiful taste of been.