Grove 7

lace.jpgSlipping slowly to ground I moan the name and reach to myself. I miss her skin, hungry for lips and voice. Blood throbs rigid, the memory of teasing touch, smooth lips tasting thighs slipping hot flesh seeking new flavor. Grasses high and soft, earthen bed under, I stroke quietly listening to whispering tall soft grass. A gasp stills my questing palm from awaited kiss. Quiet, small me moves toward breathless wonder of whom, where and can I see. Parted grass finds her, verdant earthen lover, roots waiting under soft moon. Rampant sliding, dryad still and cool takes gnarled thrust open and wanton, grasping moist bark gasping spend in mossed roots of wonder. Moaning like syllables, striking tongues match, cloth sublimes in ever-lost moments, joined, our skins slide to union. We are watched; she, wanton, watches back, hotter now, feeling ever and again more than full she whispers the story along my neck, telling me we are now for him. Our gift is her lust for him. She holds the cradled earth, watching, aroused root spending life into story, spring lives again and again as we lift ourselves to wonder at whom, what is there. Liquid sand holds us separate, doubled and again, watching from inside our watcher becomes us. Time spirals, soft feather touch rouses mud to motion as gasping dryad’s leaves tell stories of sunlit stone to tears of roots in earth. Sand tells time, glistening as it falls in rippling reflected light the earth breathes in wonder.

Text by Robert Morgan, photo by W. Merganser

~ by Molly Montrevoir on December 18, 2006.

One Response to “Grove 7”

  1. Last sentence simply superb

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