Cutting Class for Willow Lake

The short pier barely swayed, as a ripple
crossed the lake. A sumptuous strawberry
speckled with cratered seeds rolled, until free
and falling, to the water’s gentle pull.

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Next to sandwiches and fruit filled bowls,
and pitted olives with white feta, three
moss green bottles of aged burgundy
warmed, languid in resting plum-dark bubbles.

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High smoky cloudbursts lurked like thunder there,
for strings of lightning to slash and streak. She lay
across the pier, wearing a dress of pear
green cotton, speckled with pink dots. He prayed:

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as his hazel eyes ranged her blushing face,
he’d never lose his urge to flirt and chase.