I want him to find me buried
beneath stacks paperbacks,
smell the summer night, on hill sides
and the musk of aging pages as he follows the trail
down to the acre of grass,
beneath that apple tree, where I lie;
sundress and barefoot,
long hair and flowers weaved into braids.
I want him to undress me,
himself, and lay on the grass, after hours;
the dark trees quiet behind our backs,
as the round moon whispers the sun to sleep.