If I lay thinking about the heat, Still pond, cradling the sun, No one but you would come Into it, I would turn over Taking the sun on my skin Opening and closing my hands, Still pond, hair damp at the roots on my head, Listening alone to the underground Drum sound my heart would make Into the blanket, sun all damp on my skin, Caraway seeds on my tongue. Violet Ranney Lang (1924-1956)