The Dance in The Garden

In the musk of the garden,
the fire throbbed,
you held me in your grip,
your hand pulled and led me
trembling,
and you twirled me.
I longed for you
in that smooth swaying night,
and you danced me to the other side.

The fire flared and rustled,
you swirled and undulated,
binding every part of me
with your succulent web of flesh
in the snug enfolded night.

In the aromatic garden,
the fire popped and cracked,
you held your lips open
and I placed mine on
your swollen throbbing crease;
slowly I entered and
you held me
in the moist mouth of the night,
and danced me to the other side.

Secret and soft,
you made me thirst for you.
I sat and drank you in,
lapped you, swallowed you,
in the fluid dark of the garden,
in the liquid ripples of the night.

In the perfumed garden,
the fire smoldered,
glowing and dimming.
Your white sea foam arms
enveloped me,
you cascaded your red hair
and allowed me to reach
and clasp and clasp again,
the curving swell and
heave of your breasts,
in the dark suckling night.

The fire flared and reared,
as you swayed in the heat.
You trapped me in you,
snared by lust and by
eyes of spring
and I, finding release,
filling you as I emptied myself
and we waltzed close and warm
in the satiating glow of the night.

In the failing aroma of the garden,
the fire dimmed, cinders glowed,
the slow moving air transformed you
and tightly swaddled us.
You held me
till the failing coals
crumpled to ash
and the breaking light
streaked the pallid sky
and you carried me
as your dance
danced us to the other side.