Witch-Wife




Between the salt lick

and the stream, you
like the fawn, step closer
through the low pines
through the high moon's light
to gaze upon her milk-
soaked skin,  her cheeks afire
from epiphanies of red curls.
When she sings the solstice
songs, lilac perfume
spills from her fountain 
and you want to steal
those thigh pillows
from Renoir
and all those other brooding
voyeurs, 
to nuzzle in the crook of
her high seas and low tides
and sleep,
however lightly,
there.



*Originally Published in ArtLIfe
web stats