(Poem by Wendy Howe )

With a rose in one hand,
I scent and slip on the moon's silken light,
a negligee that makes me glisten
slender and pale before you. Pines shadow
the skyline with their dark spires
and you approach me here, under
this archway of trees, this shrine
of fragrance and timeless sanctity.
The night air grows still. Its warmth
lands on my hand like a dove, a messenger
saying you have come to tend my longing,
to lay me under the stars' joyous glance,
and share the communion of lovers.

© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.
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