Thursday Poem - How the Trees on Summer Nights

How the trees on summer nights turn into

a dark river, how you can never reach it,
no matter how hard you try, walking as fast
as you can, but getting nowhere, arms and
legs pumping, sweat drizzling in rivulets;
each year, a little slower, more creaks
and aches, less breath. Ah, but these soft
nights, air like a warm bath, the dusky wings
of bats careening crazily overhead, and
you’d think the road goes on forever.
Apollinaire wrote, “What isn’t given to love
is so much wasted,” and I wonder what
I haven’t given yet. A thin comma moon
rises orange, a skinny slice of melon, so
delicious I could drown in its sweetness.
Or eat the whole thing, down to the rind.
Always, this hunger for more.

Barbara Crooker, (from More)