Step out from the shade
and the day’s an empty street,
an entire town asleep
in deference
to the white-walled heat.
We’ll wait, with the cork oak
for company, its toothed leaves
no longer green, but fragrant
as the winding road
up to the winery.
Slack as cats drowsing,
unconscious as the sea,
we’ll soften into the base
of this tree,
our tree, so long
as we delay.