Our Summer Days

I melted, hot like the butter in my mothers' Alabama kitchen on a 

Sunday afternoon right after church 

when the chicken was made and the women were cookin' and the kitchen was alive. 

Your tongue, sweet in my mouth, tasted my honey lips. 

Your hands, like fine cotton sheets, 

were consoling my tired 

skin.

The color of rosemary glowed in my cheeks. 

In our slow kisses, I felt like we were one. 

Finally, I belonged.

Reviews

[zainul]

You spared no opportunity of romance.
Hot summer kitchen where chicken was made became your beloved rendezvous.
You created a wonderful recipe of poem with honey, rosemary and lots of other ingredients.
Congratulations!