Persimmon And Tobacco Shags
A woman's chemise tickles the leaves of the shags,
by Christine K. Trease
the persimmon sway to the melody of the approaching pother.
The backyard prospect once forgotten,
recounted with a steamy glance of lust.
Lust now viewed through a different light from the arrival
of the grey thunderheads above.
Binding chains of devotion melted effortlessly by the rain's
passion-filled drops as they splat to the ground.
The touch of skin to skin as electrifying as the
lightening flashes overhead.
Fleeting moments birthed from chance,
lost to time that cannot take it back.
A Christ-cross burden encumbers the bearer with an unreasonable
weight of conscienceless guilt.
Dredging up deep-welled cravings once thought abandoned,
the small bell-shaped flowers of the persimmon once unripe and
astringent are now fully prepared and succulent.
Soaked bodies entwine in the duskiness of the day,
face to face, kiss to kiss and touch to touch we lay.