and post notes and photos about your poem like Bob Kimmerling.
A ripened plum, still warmed to touch
and taste of summer sun.
Half ripe tomatoes, breathed with greenhouse opened door
before the senses gather more when picked,
firm at first, then squelched between the lips
shooting sideways, some dribbled pips.
Cherries, on their wishbone stalks,
give stolen pleasure sweet and brief,
just in reach on shady summer walks where overhanging branch
holds ruby treasures for the cherry thief.
Skylark, a solitary speck in cloudless sky
seen when lying in the meadow flowers,
so high, so hard to see with naked eye,
yet clear to ear while lazing passing hours,
and with closing eyes, as if nearby.
Summer breeze, teasing face with whisps of hair.
Bare arms, bare legs tickled in the waving grass,
seduced by soft caress,
summer's touch of gentle stroking air.
Muscles loose and eyelids rest.
Breath breathes in and breath breathes out,
and, with every parting breath, leaves last remaining care.
Copyright © Bob Kimmerling | Year Posted 2020
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