Under the bough

I watched.
The spangled crepes
were observing the sun like
gaggles of grins on kids
at inter-weaving play.
Ah, I find it calm.
(dreamy sigh)
I find it calm for dawdling,
right beneath its shoulders,
so taut they are, and
solemn.
Like the spine of a warrior's
son.
I have to squint blindly,
when the crackling rings of
tawny residue
catch the sweeps and
confront my view.
It leaves a shadow
that is fresh, and
preserves the coolness of early day,
with the vigillent watch of
a nuturing presence.
The arms of a kitchen maid,
folded in pre chastizing stance,
overlooking,
soothe the drapes to
silent.