St. Valentine's Eve

Yellowing honeysuckle
spills its dead scales,
falls to the flowering earth
from a rickety fence.

Nightfall's skinny grin
slides above black pine,
slyly hangs like
an amber scar overhead.

I imagine wrapping
waiting love,
late season passion
around your long legs.

In my waking garden,
the bridal plum
clasps pure bouquets
within spare, gnarled hands.

I see your smile
inside each dream,
smell you against my skin,
hear you sigh
from the incoming surf.
Take me to: Botanical Jihad

Last Update: 04/17/97
Web Author: Jennifer Lagier