Gord

2023-01-05 06:49 am

Sickle swing into the grass, 
Thinking of pictures, gifts,
Hoping they still persist,
Hopes for more than past.
Head in the clouds, riddles,
Under his cap, a fickle thing.

Sickle swing the earth and drag,
He touches her breasts and legs,
Permitting his heart fleeting
To consider something risqué.