O, wonderful Lover that you are!
Your cold tongue grazes the shell of my ear,
and your hot liquid Summer breath
drips onto my shirt.
I can feel your urgent fingers drench me,
reach beneath my thin shirt and cotton shorts,
and play with the things you find underneath.
Your mouth tastes like mushrooms
cooked in red wine, meaty and earthen,
and pine sap, dripping like honey
from the joints of the trees
and down, down, down
the dimples of Venus
and the soft skin of my thighs.
You smell of topsoil overturned
and deer come to play
with the wolves not far behind.
Your cool breath against my throat
dances with the hot thrum of my heart
and dips into my belly,
a strong buck nobly bent to take his drink,
lapping up the heat you find there.
Only the grey clouds approaching
warned me of you,
and, now, I am left drying
under warm blankets,
shivering from the sickness
your touch left behind.
And, yet, I will search you out
when you come again
with the hot desire ready to be cooled
by the tears of heaven.