DANCING AT OLD THRESHERS'.(Poem)

 
   Tangerine sunset floats low on the horizon. 
   The moon is orbiting around your hat. 
 
   I dance with you between rows 
   of early September corn, 
   your Amish beard a field of uncut hay. 
 
   I haven't memorized the map 
   of the constellations, but your eyes 
   are burning. The landscape of your muscles 
   ripples under your white muslin shirt. 
 
   You turn me two hands round 
   as the Great Bear rises in the sky 
   above your left shoulder. 
 
   There's a secret beneath my gingham apron, 
   a shower of falling stars 
   as we dance around the fire 
   kicking up the ground made hard 
   by late summer rain. 
 
   We orbit around the shapes 
   of our forefathers' …