That summer, in the orchard,
the mirages at the ends
of the methodical rows
would periodically turn
into tractor-towed wagons.
And occassionally,
after picking a random
number of bushels,
our arms would touch
as we reached
for the same branch.

Sometimes, too
in the geometric precision
of that July orchard,
my denim hips
would brush against hers,
in counterpoint
to the scrape of skin
against bark, the stir
of faint breeze against
elusive leaf, the muted
chugging
of a tractor far down the row
its trailing cloud of dusty haze
shimmering.

______________

by Roy Beckemeyer

© 1977 by L.M. Grow, PhD, et al. 

  in "Gazebo: a poetry journal"