August sun

A moment from last year, from a land dedicated for the past 47 years to women.

Bare skin, hot sun, blue

sky, surrounded by

(no walls)

open meadow, trees

the snow-capped mountain

to the east, snatches of women's talking

and singing.

I didn't mind, for the first time,

the shower's cold.

No hollering or hurrying

needed for me to bear it,

warm as I was

from the work of packing up camp

under the midday sun --

conscious as I was of

the nearness of farewells

I wanted to leave that land with traces

of her water on my skin

still, in my drying hair.

I scrubbed myself to a glisten in

that warm sun, that soft breeze

with oil and sugar (gifts left by another woman)

assiduously

meticulously

feeling something of a ritual in it

feeling the air and the sun and the land all

intent on me, and

I intent on them.

All tumble of apples

wind bells

high yellow grass

and laughter.