As the day heats up,
Past the ridge of summer,
Pears fermenting on the ground,
I cross the field into the woods,
Hang my shirt on a nail,
And unwrap the gift of loneliness.
A good old shirt, chambray,
Triple-stitched in Maine,
Faded to comfort over 40 years.
In cooler, overarching shade,
Past the ridge of summer,
I doubt I'll need another.
