LOVE OF PLANTING
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Doves sing, but again he's on the wing,
Flitting from thistle to splendid pistil.
Heaving breaths mingle, he single; ignored whether
Blanket is of grass, no concern for futures past.
Distended rose buds roll and cap distant knolls,
As seen during bound from inguen to mound.
Pleasures so rare, abound and are there.
Morning, so new, a taste of sweet dew.
Bursting white-hot bright light; sun shines too.
Warmth begins to grow also a slow flow.
Moisture trails linger pointing, as a damp finger,
Glistening highlights, slithering, moistness withering.
Seeds litter spring paths; a twitter, no aftermaths?
Onan may grow, others don't sew, even during afterglow.
...---------------------------------------------------
Copyright 1995 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
What the, where in the, what do you get from this?
Rick...
* OLX 2.1 TD * From your pen . . . to their lips . . . to God's ear. . .
--- MsgToss 2.0c
* Origin: WRITERS BIZ-crafting & forging Dreams-412-588-7863 (1:2601/522)
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Poetry {Gated} 
