~ Musing after Midnight O’ Her ~
On a stellar honeymoon,
For just four suckling
Suns,
From thirty crescent
grey moonets,
With herself,
Oh, she is lying in
satin bed,
Goose down quilt
stretched to her head,
Curious — more than the
size of two silk bolsters — hair caressed,
Cold nipping,
Dark gripping,
Here, she is about to
narrate,
Bystander to which she
was,
A tale of a happily
shallow brook,
Flowing beneath her
window of pure timber wood,
Oh, listen, how it
croons …
Yes, the songs,
Lilting hymns,
A flitting fable,
Of one not-so-fair girl
and,
Her submission to the
moon,
Her love of trees,
Trails,
Mallow grass,
Of quagmires,
Marshy lands,
Green water,
Lazy horses,
Swift squirrels,
Of how Butterfly colors
got rubbed off on her,
Of one badminton match
in the morning,
Another table tennis
duel after dinner,
Lo! Birds twittering,
chattering,
While she is making
love to her muse,
Even after Midnight O’
Her …
Her long lost tender
song overawed her,
In a rich, momentous
seclusion — homing in zilch —
She is laughing,
hugging and kissing her soul,
Euphorically — amused —
here — only here,
With me,
Within me …
