From my fave poet, the fruit of her words. Thank you Dahling!
The trees are filled with blossoms they wave beneath the pale sky like pink hands of impish children. Meet me in the orchard before summer slips away, I want to dip my hand in the cold brook just to feel the ache. Naked among bird of paradise sun-drenched thighs wet with dew feed me sweet red apples while they are nothing more than fruit.