Your touch, like ripened grapes sweet,
Separating and plucking, lingers in the vine overlong.
Dew glistens on your fingertips - I watch
As you suckle one by one, your gaze steady,
Blazing with the heat of your being, the very center,
The core of you challenging yet exposed.
It is the sheer intensity of your movements, your hand
Strong, solid, and certain, oh so certain,
As it glides over each curve, delving into hidden recesses,
Invoking the mystery of the harvest, where all fruit,
Ripe and tender, long to be fondled - then devoured.
Each master-stroke lures the fruit from the vine;
Each whisper defines the intention,
Your fingers exposing the sweet, plump treasure
You have been seeking, the captivating scent draws
You down, your mouth hungry, your lips moving
Close to your fingertips as you taste the delicacy you’ve
Cultivated, the trembling fruit the reward your labor bore.
Dena L Moore
March 26, 2010