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Mar 2020
The goddess of the spent moon skulks to her feathery bed of fiery dawn.
Wrens through the uplands wend the fence weft with piecemeal straw.
Lips painted like pomegranate groves, dashed with fructifying sweets.
A kiss is a far-off and warm opening of lips like the sun into forest gleams.
Chris Saitta
Written by
Chris Saitta  54/M/Virginia
(54/M/Virginia)   
    305
         IntoTheGale, Maria Mitea, Bardo, Fawn, kate and 26 others
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