August in Big Sur

A few miles from the ocean
reached by truck on rugged road
lined with pale pink buckwheat,
ruby lit Indian Paintbrush
delicate Queen Anne's Lace
I sit by an old wooden cabin,
feel sun's beginning seduction.

Rays closer than usual
probe my skin,
alert my blood to its glory.
An easy surrender.
The sun loves its loving.

Soon heat becomes too strong.
I seek overhanging shelter,
bask in slanted shade
to slake arrising passion.

On the downward return,
small golden poppies,
strong enough to nod at wind,
tie themselves to the earth
before sundown closes their petals.

Illia Thompson