The Tenth

…this perfect kiss.
These flowers which rise
within the glades, the light
bent by branches, the hum of bees and sap.
The touch of, the kiss of, sun
upon forest floor.

The slow arching neck,
ancient heron, aloof in shaded stream.
The beating wings, no Leda here,
a willing joiner, raising lips
caressed with tender presses,
the light which heats.
The moment of beginnings.

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