º

it’s a tiny word,

respect, and, after all, what does it mean? a creeping,

crawling word that

remembers to rinse the empty

can of cat

food, that didn’t call for its scripts on time, that knows

if you keep doing the same thing, you will keep getting the same

results. and why not? why the body, the heart, must leap, 

but no one knows how to get there, or when trust (and success)

will come, or that to pass into your lover’s body, you must let

them pass into

yours. rolling round in the straw

will take out the kinks–yes, your heart matters; I want a big bed

covered with white

linens, a vase of fresh roses on the window ledge & the window

open to salt breeze, english town from Hardy &

your body shining under mine–bad girl, or

not.

º

copyright © 2013, The Rag Tree

*

Everytime I see you, you give me butterflies.

Seriously, what am I supposed to do with these? 

Am i supposed to let them fly free?

Am I supposed to release them into the air and  let them fly like I feel like I can when you’re around?

I think I have too many butterflies now.

You give them to me every time we meet

As if you think I am running out. 

I wish that you would stop giving them to me. 

But somehow I think you don’t realise that you leave butterflies in your wake. 

It’s like you leave a trail of them and I am supposed to follow the trail

Am I? Am I supposed to follow the butterflies like bread crumbs?

Or will it just lead me to the witch’s house?

Everytime I see you, you give me butterflies.

I don’t know what to do with these.

At first light she opens her eyes,
rosy cheeks bedimpled as she smiles.
With her hand she reaches out,
to touch the sun’s rays caressing
her window pane.

A breath of sigh escapes her parted lips,
contentment she bears in every line of her face.
Her body slowly opens up to the day,
as she uncurls her limbs from night’s embrace.

Stretching body with sensuous delight
falling sheet slowly cascading,
on smooth skin that glistens in the light,
never ending like sparkling wine.

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