A Sunday to Her Liking
       

She was propped on the prow
of the headland, painting
rumples in a lull sea,
cornflower sky off to the left,
cobalt straightaway for
a white-winged yacht, a love barge —
she had not decided which.
The Pacific lapped at the ankles
of Oregon, and on the girl's faux
Tahiti, bougainvillea bloomed.
Tigers leaped from enormous fronds;
there were no tigers.
Beach grass billowed;
weightless, the gulls posed.
A dwarf weaved down the riprap
shore: who wore a beach coat
and aviator glasses; who threw
a bone to a blur of Dalmatian;
who, with macaw at the wrist,
would explore her fable canvas.
The indefatigable sun tried once more
to capture a girl in summer.
I was behind her, happy as the mad
are happy, fumbling the picnic.

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Copyright © 2011 J. Patrick Lewis All rights reserved
from Gulls Hold Up the Sky
Laughing Fire Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission