spring evening, under young fruit trees
A plum blossom flutters down, caressed by a playful breeze; it lands in the tangled silk of your hair, an offering from an unseen god. I bury my face in the valley of your breasts, the pillow of your thighs - scenting you, drawing beads of sweat away with my tongue.
The wind plays and hides among the leaves, setting more of the heavy blooms free. They fall around you - around us - and I imagine foolish gods drunk on your beauty; they would walk among mortals as dogs or rivers or the men of the market-place, and they would tear you away from me -
Or they would try. But our roots are knit-knotted together, you and I.
The wind plays and hides among the leaves, setting more of the heavy blooms free. They fall around you - around us - and I imagine foolish gods drunk on your beauty; they would walk among mortals as dogs or rivers or the men of the market-place, and they would tear you away from me -
Or they would try. But our roots are knit-knotted together, you and I.