A Fall From Grace
Arms reach across mountains to
by William D. Borgen
seal the fate of lovers.
Teach me to savor figs, dates, acorns.
Your neck invites long sighs.
In our house of love are the aromas of
cedar and camphor.
Love is the smell of blackberries in August.
Love is the smell of the sun in a basket woven
of palms leaves.
Doors open and close with a click.
Tan feet pad the cool tiled floor.
Window shutters await the news,
and coasts and inlets keep their
thoughts to themselves with a faint smiles.
Your fingers weave the sunset into tapestries
lost to mediaeval pyres;
hues too, too rich
for the sable brushstroke.