The Kiss, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz
It is fall, the golden time, when thou shall
Leave my gardens as Persephone will.
Shan’t lock thee with horses in the corral.
Then go. Leave me without love, without thrill.
Wait, delay, the ground remains soft and warm.
Lie with me on the meadow’s new mown hay.
Come close, let me prop thy head with my arm,
So you hear every word of love I say.
These two moist lips are ripe as thy body.
Pressing my body against thine. Hearts are
Racing. From our love will soon embody,
Thy equal of beauty under our star.
Winter will soon come and the fields shall sleep,
While patiently I wait our love to reap.