You leave Haast in the velvet valley where the bras
hung just before, dangling ******* of mountains
rearing their ******* of snow at your watching.

The road licks the mountainside as I climb
high up her  body  to gaze at her beauty
as she succumbs to my wonder and awe
at such balanced beauty
hidden in jurrasic worlds
away from city made concrete wonders.

High up
a slender waterfall that gathered
all the mountains thin ribbon streams
gracefully spills over in a flush full
****** of satisfaction
as we held hands and watched
the tourists more interested in pictures
than passion racing to a finish.

I slid my hand around your buttocks
to remind me
that you too were blessed with mounds
and softly rising mountains
which I will devour when we settle
into discussions on love, later.

And of course, every single time you read
my new poem you ask:
' Do you always have to bare you soul
and my body is such a way
as to make your readers think
that all love-making was dressed
in mountains and valleys?"

"Yes" I replied to the laughter
between those apple bites!