By nine-thirty the dew is dry.
He goes out to the green yard, cuts grass, trims the fence lines
pulls weeds from a flower bed.
But his mind is stays inside
wrapped around a cotton dress
white in the shadowed rooms,
her supple sway
amid morning chores.
her torso
pale as April legs.
At noon she calls him in.
He pauses, kisses three rose buds,
climbs the steps,
opens the screen door
ready again for her feast.
No comments:
Post a Comment