November Morning

Her lips warm tucked in the
Notch of my throat, soft as
The early light of winter dawn
She curls into me lik
So many blankets as
The bedclothes (long discarded) cool
In cotton silence beside us.
We lie drenched in essence, of
Jasmine and spruce, the hint of
Foreign highlands of tropical nectar
And is it that spiny aprodisiac
That stirs us in slippery silken passion,
When breathlessly coupled
I melt into her like
Milk into warm tea.
Her soft breath brushes me that way
At my most vulnerable, her ebony
Hair draped across my chest like snowfall,
Wrapped in the silent innocense of dreams, as
I hold her tightly agianst advancing winter.
Storking her sleeping form I lose myself in those
Smooth curves pressed so naturally against me, in
Her soft olive skin and the Life within it,
Even where that softness folds in against itself to my touch.
Until surfacing in a tangle of warm legs and arms,
The grey morning light washes the sleep from our eyes,
And we Retreat to the shrill kettle-whistle,
and the warm Comfort of buttered toast.

  -- July 1998, Esteli, Nicaragua