The Storm Recedes
The storm recedes, explores me
with gentle tendrils in my hair -
at my neck, like lover's hands
in the after-time, sleepy.
Moisture rises from where I lay,
evidence of her passion. Spent,
I smile in her wake.
The lilacs have paid witness,
rubbed their knobby fingers
against one another -
set their scent free.
There I sleep, woven
into the fragrance, secure
from an infatuated breeze.
Poetry
Good morning, Erin. Hope you slept well? :o)
ReplyDeleteI like this...and I didn't have to read it three times to make sense of it. Keep 'em coming!
ReplyDelete