She, Maybe

She, Maybe

 

Brushing cross meadows, when he was young

in curiosity, parted reeds, kneeling at streams

struck by questions that could not wet lips

but locked behind those scowling dark eyes,

studied her bubbling spring waters that came

modest enough, but enough to press grains

of sand up to where flecked stickleback swum

dappled; dusked tans birthed perfect blends,

camouflaged are those signals that she sends,

in her zig zag dancing she, maybe approaches

coy behind her curtains and him red throated.

Now his older darkling eyes quest deeper still

at promising glances; bound secreted tresses,

wanting veils covering hot heads all undresses,

release in waterfalls those thick tumbling locks,

bring drink to soothe choked sand bass notes,

sprung free turning cogs will bridge her moat.

She, maybe smiling is more than just amused,

brushed cross rooms, brushed cross shoulders

with a sultry touch, slight look and fine motions

simmering within her warm sundrenched ocean

beckons, she maybe free to loose shackled fish,

coax them into perfumed deeps of secret tryst.