Heat oozes off the spring grass
sweet, musky like a lover’s thigh.
I want to be a spring colt,
bury my face in lush turf,
munch the hot green flesh.
I surrender to the moment.


Pluck a blade of grass
suck, chew, taste, smell
the sweet green joy
of fresh growth
the randy openness
laid out for generations.


Walk on the soft green cloud:
vacate your shoes;
shed socks; free your feet;
court the mystery of yielding
to a lover
with your tickled, lazy toes.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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