Slow hands

Because a cold, damp and wintery Friday night seems like the perfect time for awarm, summertime love poem:

On a blue summer night I will go through the fields,
Through the overgrown paths, in the soft scented air;
I will feel the new grass cool and sharp on my feet,
I will let the wind blow softly through my hair.

I will not say a word, I will not think a thing,
But an infintie love will set my heart awhirl,
And I will wander far, like a wild vagabond,
Throughout Nature--happy as if I had a girl.

(thank you, Arthur Rimbaud)