Clover

I am a field of clover,
sun kissed and ripe with dew,
my myriads of swollen purple heads

aching to be touched by buzzing bees.
I lay open, wide, soft and inviting,
waiting to be plucked by greedy hands

and nibbled on by the fattened cattle.
Three times three times three I spread,
across the plain until my needs are met.

When the heat rises, you cannot resist
my charms nor my scent, the promise of honey
mingled with the taste of summer to come.

 

Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved

 

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About cjchaffin

Wordsmithing is my passion. I eat, sleep, and breathe words and phrases, only to regurgitate them and pray that they are better off than when I first ingested them.
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