The sentiment in the cinnamon stills
her hand. She's recalling eyes so like spice,
softly piquant. Mmm, how they'd widened 'til
starbursts were all she could see. Once. Twice.
They had been rapacious. But what is love,
she thinks, but a delicious consummation
that never truly satisfies. Ground clove,
a dash of cardamom and sweet persuasion
is stirred and stirred. It's an old recipe,
one as familiar as the noise he makes
when he devours something savory
or honeyed, sighs from him breaking.
When the cake cools, she'll steal a tiny bite
to wet so much more than her appetite.
*Inspired by Debbie Guzzi?s haiku 15
**This is a contemporary sonnet