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that august afternoon beneath the sycamore
our hammock was a gossamer cocoon,
and we two kittens, tanglefully curled
together beneath elegantly gleaming
limbs of trees. and we sucked on lemon
without sugar, and talked till we were drowsy.
the hammock swayed so lovely-lazy, drowsy
among the rustly leaflings of the sycamore.
your hair smelled of frankincense and lemon
as it goldenly blew around us, a cocoon
of silk, and hid your eyes, though I knew their gleaming
as I knew the way your sweetest smile curled.
our thoughts were wandered, curious and curled,
the nonsense-talk of children who are drowsy.
why is the sky so blue, the moon so gleaming,
and what if I were queen? the sycamore
was hushful as we lay in our cocoon
and talked about the queen, and ate our lemon.
and do you think she drinks her tea with lemon,
and does she sleep sprawled out, or closely curled
with velvet covers for a rich cocoon?
is she allowed to yawn when she feels drowsy
and has she ever climbed a sycamore
or seen a duck-pond rippulously gleaming?
poor queen, we said, her pretty castle gleaming,
but if only she could come and share our lemon
and lie and daydream underneath the sycamore,
and be happy-free and not so scaredly curled.
and then we forgot what we were talking of, for drowsy
thoughtfulness caught us in its warm cocoon.
you said I love you and I felt a cocoon
of warmth enwrap me, fill me up with gleaming
and I beamed a smile though my eyes were drowsy.
you kissed me and it tasted like a lemon
and we both made sour faces as we curled
our fingers tight together round the sycamore.
now sycamore leaves and lemon drops remind me always
of a swaying cocoon on a drowsy august day
when the answer to all things lay curled within your gleaming eyes.