Mirabelle

Well hung from the boughs of our orchard tree
is a ripening crop of golden plums
as fresh and heavenly as when she comes...
unto the juicy knowledge tree with me
to study there what's wholesome, and a treat,
in all manner of manna from above
that lands in the laps of luxury and love
in a nuptial carnality complete
with the redolence of midsummer heat,
like a Degas portrait in thick crayons
crowning brown nipples on bosom bronze,
and lissome legs, ankles, and supple feet,
saucing her succulence to soon subsume...
the weathered bough on her plum ripened groom.