A warm tingle on a cold morning
As we expose ourselves to the air,
To wander, hand in hand, steadily
Up the uneven, winding garden path.
At the arches of our naked feet.
Surrounded by the flowering buds
Of hardy, chill blossoms in bright bloom,
All ripest pinks and gentle winter blues.
We are hot,
And we go to pluck sweet, backyard fruits,
Succulent and sapid on my lips.
A luscious and delectable sin,
Denied to us since the summer months.
Bellies full of it, we head back in,
Away from the garden's forbidden yield,
Where the cool of fresh sheets call out to us,
Balmy, pleasing and kind to tender skin.