The Story Garden 5.0
Poetry
Ripe Autumn
Time lapse dancing,
a glowing thread of years.
Miles rooted in my body,
once budding, turned burnished orange
fading into burgundy.
Oakened wine with deepened palate,
ever so much more complex
than the young whites or newborn blush
of insatiable seedlings and saplings.
My lusts remain,
softened by shadow.
No longer blinding in violent flashpoint,
but nurtured in embers that flow and wane.
Yearning endures a long, slow warmth.
The branded days of hardened nipples and willing flesh,
of teeth and muscle and cries in the night,
sigh into the lilting caress of comfortable folds
and gentle moaning toward a ripe release.
My wrinkles exceed the laughter that caused them.
Ever aware of my broadening trunk.
Robed in rich character, creviced bark,
surrounded by my offspring in various stages
of birth and youth and middle aging,
I am mother, I am host, I am ignorance and wisdom.
I spread myself, canopy, over my brood.
Love drifts outward like falling leaves
swaying harvest in the Autumn wind.
--Adria Abbott Glass
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