They’re at it again, like every year when August’s heat
crisps the grass and thunderheads swell in a sultry sky,
flinging petals from their boughs like Salome’s veils,
shrugging off bark that slips from their shoulders to
disheveled drifts on the grass and shameless they stand,
pale flesh exposed, beckoning a languid breeze
to come close and wander slowly limb to limb,
and like every year I marvel at their abandon and
voluptuary ways, wishing Mother had taught me
less of birds and bees and more about those trees.
© dana hughes 8.17.16
Furthermore... 
Erotic poetry about the trees in my grandmother’s backyard. Now that’s about as good as it gets. Every day, I read the poem of the day in the Writer’s Almanac. I’d say that less than 25% of them are as good as this is. The imagery is bold and coy all at the same time. Reading this is like undressing a woman with one’s eyes–it’s simultaneously intrusive and furtive, aroused and slightly guilty. I will never again look at a crepe myrtle without thinking about Salome’s veils or a dress slipping from a lover’s shoulders onto the floor. Good Lord, what a poem. It’s been a while since you’ve posted, but this was worth the wait. I am in awe.