by Linda Dominique Grosvenor
The table is set; shall we have tea?
and drink of nature's herbal essence?
or wander into the forest for a peek
at the greenery blanketed softly with newfallen snow?
pausing only to gaze upon the shy eyes of hesitance
that has befallen us both, and holds us captive
yet allows us to steal the tenderness of each other's lips
underneath the mistletoe, without warning and void of cues?
we are savoring each other like powdered sugar
that melts as the warmth of our mouths draw near
and take us away to a place where love is perfect
and I assume that you shall take me as your bride.
the scent of winter's pine, has drawn me a memory
of a cottage, with a crackling fire that sheds our evening chill,
and we embrace, celebrating our love with wine that complements
the ripe sweetness of your lips and the aroma of something baking.
more than that, the lips have surrendered to its own will
and found safety in the comfort of mine,
it is the slow and deliberate repititions that give birth
to such pleasure, as your lips find my hand, and slightly parted, kiss
they silence me willingly, eyes closed, imaginations swelling,
and now, i'd do just about anything for another.