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Sunday, June 21, 2009

Rosy Bower

there are lips, a pair
in a rosy bower, where
to stand on its shelf-edge
all seems bright and fair,

painted a fickle colour,
from passion pink
to a red madder; there
to sit and think

and bloom like a flower
in a sunny glade,
or to build up appetites
in its silent shade,

where stomachs get hotter
from sweet perfume,
diffused in a valley
with just enough room

for the thinker to enter,
to softly go and see
if he may learn to grow
in sweet humility.

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© CC License 2004-18. Unless otherwise stated all poetry, prose and art are the original work of the blog owner.