Meadow at Night

It is the perfect night to spread
a patchwok quilt in a mountain meadow.
To sink down in the tall grass, oblivious
to all but the indigo sky winking
at us with a million eyes, cuddle
as we whisper words, barely audible
above the soft serenade of cicadas.

Legs intertwine, like wild sweetpeas
inseperable. Primrose's sweet scent
blends with passion's perfume, drifts,
cocoons us in an atmosphere
of excited anticipation, as clothes unbutton
belts unbuckle, skins are shed.

Bodies enjoin, move to the rhythm
as field flowers bend in the soft, warm breeze
gently dip in and out of each other
with knowing glances, well placed caresses.

A stalk tilts to breaking
only to rebound back and bend again,
until stroked one too many times
gives up it's resistance and wilts
buried in the mound beside it,
to be born again by morning light.