There is nothing
so succulent and sweet
as a ripe plum hanging from its branch in due season.
Standing in the green shade of such a
I yield to temptation and pluck the purple fruit,
holding its moist, curved skin against my
juice running down parted lips.
Surely this is the kiss we tasted when the
world was new
and mild days made love to cool nights.
I lie in blades of grass and close my eyes
as a leaf makes its journey to the ground,
passing lightly across my cheek like a
Such is the hand of a maiden sweet,
her heart filled with passion’s nectar,
one whose skin is soft, whose breasts are perfectly round.