Marjoram Woman Poem by Dr. Charles A Stone

There are men who prefer chile pequin women,
red-hot mommas whose kisses set their lips on fire
and burn all the way down; audacious women,
slim of waist and broad of hip, with spangly red
earrings - fingers and toes painted to match.

I prefer someone more subtle, in a gown of
silvery-green foliage with white-tufted buds,
whose delicate fragrance drives bees wild;
a woman whose earthy flavors are released
on the stove or when dried and tossed in a salad.

She'll be there, my marjoram woman,
in my garden or somewhere in the kitchen,
waiting for the caress of my fingers,
knowing that when her lips brush mine
I will be driven to ravenous distraction.