prelude to an evening kiss

and when the sun
had inked the fountain
till he was done
painting the mountain,
the skies ablaze
were filled with praise.
 
eavesdropping birds
feathered the stillness,
bereft of words
for eve’s tranquilness;
i sat alone,
my baritone
 
ripe with a song
to tease my lover.
the wait is long,
yet must i prove her—
lips so much wine
i must make mine.
 
here come her feet,
drinking my music,
every heartbeat
a bold acoustic.
the hour is ripe:
love’s prototype
 
shines like the sun
inking the fountain.
my wait is done,
give me this mountain:
her lips ablaze
my lips amaze…
 
© Copyright 2020 May 25
by Clyve A. Bowen♫