I close my eyes and wet my hands.
I churn the lapping waves.
Up rise huge billowing clouds
of pink and white and purple
reflected in a lake below,
bobbing slowly with the breeze.
You bound in my frothy surf.
It clings then slides down your skin.
Like the essence of you, it repeats
and repeats, wafting without fatigue.
I open to the swell in my palms
and bring the foam up to my lips.
Will you smell Spring on my neck
from this lather of lilac soap?
Comments about this poem (FINGER LAKES by Glen Martin Fitch )
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