Flavour and cojone
He asked her one beautiful afternoon,
With winter singing a mellifluous tune,
Sitting under a tree sprawling as they were,
Reading poetry of the wonderous winter,
'It was really good,'
She whispered soft,
Causing a tremble to the warm lethargic air,
But her eyes had a look dimmed and demurred,
But the breeze had not yet caught the ends of her hair,
To get blown a bit
To be in the righteous poetic spirit,
He heard her
Looking at the scribble on print,
'These words need them I feel...'
She added as her appraisal,
She asked him as if to clarify,
This time not looking on the pages,
Where his words sat still for ages,
'I guess so...'
And flavour of wine
Under the tree
As the afternoon melt