On a tuffet she lay,
As each dwindling ray,
Kissed her muffet like summer’s last lover.
Splayed without care,
And as perfectly bare,
As the autumn-blown branches above her.
Hand on her thigh,
Welling up like the eye
Of a storm, calm, awaiting ascent.
Moans from her mouth,
Sent the birds soaring south
For the winter of her sweet content.
Like a spider,
Her fingers crept nimbly inside her,
And tickled her pink till she’d swoon.
At each lithe, little diddle,
She’d fit like a fiddle,
Strung tautly, yet just out of tune.
Pleasure’s perennial petals
Fell gently and settled
By the bed of her chasm,
With each season that came,
So came she, in the same
Way one might compare apples to orgasms.
The joy it would bring
Her to usher in spring,
Made her flesh and her spirit both swell.
Delighted, she found,
Flowers bloomed from the ground,
In the spots where her honeydew fell.