Sunday, in the rose garden
we shared a pomegranate,
laughing as the seeds burst
in our mouths
and stained our lips, fingers,
my white t-shirt–
the swan looked on in disapproval
as you took off my clothes.
Cheeks flushed, lips blushed red
from passion’s fruit,
we fell among the thorns,
poked and prodded by lust
until the scent of Autumn Damask
and the taste of pomegranates
bled into one.
Late September, without fail
the double bloom repeats and fades,
shades of pink retreating, leaving
only pale flesh and memories behind.
Copyright © 2011 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved