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By j. knipp Date: 2004 Dec 05 Comment on this Work [[2004.12.05.02.31.26299]] |
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These tresses drifting down like grain 'cross skin. These polished limbs and sloping curves entreat Not green or gold but colored of sin. In here, this place I tread, rests fruitful trees. As I draw near my blood grows fiery fast. Through clouds of cotton cloth or satin, I Can spy so softly sinking south this pass. Enticing scented tulip, red and ripe. And here, in her, there is a sticky shine Of sap and sun-stroked syrup so bright. Our arms enfold and dewy lips entwine When like leafy vines of one root unite. In the smooth crevices of your terrain I find the comfort brought by a hot day's rain. |