Beneath Weeping Willows
©2012, Olan L. Smith
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She pokes me on my pillow; her voice is a tall glass of iced coffee
Sweetened to perfection, doctored to my taste,
“Write of us under weeping willows, tell how you took my chastity.”
She wraps her wings around me; her feathers tickle my core, posthaste
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A tingle ascends my spine from tail to crown; I am truly bless-ed
For her support lifts me to lofty planes of existence; she frees
My mind filling it with majestic familiarity of life before, a river never jaded―
Memories of when I first spied her nude beauty beneath the willow trees.
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Her long dark hair, waterfalls touching the loam;
Her flesh, pale pink ― her feathers a winter’s snow;
Her words stimulate my awareness, awakens my being; her wisdom a tome
To read and comprehend, for she is my mate for eternity ― my spiritual plateau.