Above, the sky is a perfect robins egg blue
Sparse white clouds go slowly scudding by
Like cotton balls blown by a mischievous child
On my back in the cool verdant grass gazing
As I idly play with your hair, fragrant and soft
Tunes from a radio play low, our favorite station
My well thumbed Yeats reader in my hand
But I'm not reading, preoccupied with this
This moment, watching your chest rise and fall
Steady breaths as you doze, head on my chest
The breeze, the music, the sky, the grass
But in the end the moment is us, only us
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