My flower was laden with dew,
So pink, so moist, and open;
Like lips that are parted in two,
Her center, her tongue, was golden.
And crossed by green blades of grass,
Formed in a triumphal arch;
Through which some great man could pass,
Or some great army march.
I love the juxtaposition of the innate sensuousness of the flower being threatened, consumed, or exploited by those around her. I can relate.
Wow, how fitting you’re the first one who got it…and you’re also my first correspondence…i wrote that when i was 19
I barely knew you then – what a shame.
Yeah, who would have thought. I know its trite but life sure is funny.