Seasons blink by on the screened
back porch, potted plants venting
green pyroclastic flow—jays squawking
at each other across the birdbath
until first frost crusts the deck
and hones blades of grass.
At 70 a soul projects memories
on mind’s screen—that time where
kissing and kissing burst magma
through pours and fingertips,
bodies screamed for eruption
behind a dune that July night
mouthwatering even at 70.