Storm rages for a distant summer night
like sweet molasses from hard sugar cane
compressing heartbeats, ever so polite,
until soft moonlight hastens them again.
Such hurricane brews hard within my stead
pushing the hours of light that lie ahead,
and press this heady rush that might impair
those stately daylight moments that we share.
Pray midnight casts cool shadows for our love;
protects it from the coo of mourning dove
where we shall blaze those flames held close at bay
throughout our wanting in the light of day.
I touch your skin pressed gently into mine
and savor moments as our limbs entwine.
But like a jester or a circus clown
whose antics often lead one to believe
that right is wrong whenever up is down
I now must don a coat of soft reprieve.
Too soon it comes, and nightfall bears its end
forging a hope most would not comprehend.
And in a reckless moment we admit
baring the passion daytime won't permit.
Sweet magnolia on the southern air,
the morning's gold reveals our cloaked affair
oblivious while parting lips recall
the moonlit kiss we drank in spite of all.
My heart prefers the night that bleeds my mind
and ever pines the love we leave behind.
Pamela A. Lamppa
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