poetry soaked in rum ~

 

Of newly washed linen that flutters on the line
of misty foggy moments that seem all mine
utter bliss of lazing in the winter sun
inexplicable sensuousness
as bumblebees drone and hum
decadent hours whiled away
 picking shapes from wispy clouds
who cares if the red of my toe paint seems loud
wafting aroma of cinnamon sticks
somewhere
  a hint of cardamom and saffron
 my senses pick
how come Shakespeare never wrote a sonnet
of sinful mornings soaked in spicy rum
when just the fragrance of rosemary
is enough to inspire some
eying the jars of spices lined up on the shelf
i share a smile with myself
a morning summed up as poetry in itself

~o0o~