another sleepless night with you, your lips
on mine, my lips sculpting your neck, grazing
tender places all along your skin. you
whisper sweetness into night’s deep shadows,
crowd life with rich passion, ardent kisses
offered as a sort of worship, meant to reach
spirit via the senses . . . sweeter balm
must certainly be more rare than diamonds.
and in the morning another sonnet
for you, sweet scheherizade, o new goddess
of my nights, chaperone of dreams, keeping
these horses docile, nickering in orchards
abundant with succulent fruit and moonbeams
musical with falls and the giggling stream.
David M Pitchford
1 Nov 2011