Come, Let Us Walk Poem by John Lars Zwerenz

Come, let us walk
Beneath the tufts of the morning flower,
In the rapturous cadence of the boundless bower;
Come, my beloved, and let us talk
Of sanctified things— It is the hour.
I shall clothe your fingers
With silver rings.
And there, in the alcove of ambrosial air,
In the caress of the summer wind,
Where a moonlit fountain lingers,
Beneath the canopy of a tamarind,
Allow me to undress you there.
And slowly, one by one,
Your immaculate, white veils
Shall clothe the fresh, green grass.
At first, the last of the scattered sun
Shall make you wonder and hesitate;
But your slightly given protests come too late—
For a weak objection softly fails
When halcyon scents commingle with the flesh—
All scruples shall pass,
And our arms shall mesh.
Come, let us walk
Beneath the tufts of the morning flower;
Come, let us talk
Of sanctified things,
Of bright, silver rings,
Of the ardent heart with its flutterings—
Come, my lover, it is the hour.

John Lars Zwerenz