Scent of Lily

She whispers words in rhyme
Like the soft pull at an earlobe
bumps on neck and fair hair rise
the gentle perturbations she can
with most mundane topics rise

Her words swell, a ripe cork
It must be pulled before it rots
and oh the the spoil makes it
Much more for the pleasure
Like overturned vines or...

My own vine hardened in the soil
How long at it to pull and think
Of when it will yield to pressure


Perhaps never toII
The silly clumsy scent of
the overwhelming lily