It sweeps up over the Saint Andrew plain,
this rain-heavy breeze –
this cool moving wash.

The leaves rustle.
My sundress dances.
The air pulls a sigh from my lips.

It reminds me of other times
of other places
of skin on skin
of warmth and cool and dry and moist

For a moment.

And then it is gone.
It moves on up the hills,
and soon there is no trace
except the clean bareness on my neck.