All young women are breathtaking,

summer sits upon them golden

and burnished brown.

Willow limbs — laughing willows —

flying locks flurried on a hot wind’s

sigh, eyes clear and bright as moonlight

perched upon the far end of the pier.

It’s good that they do not know,

know the charm of wind chimes

comes from breezes as they pass and

summers fly like cotton wise

from white-capped dandelions.

Let them bewitch and be bewitched by    

the summer that they are, this

summer that they will remember —

the swish

of a downy gown

tickling the turn of a turning ankle.