Eroticism

Water, the insatiable lover, writhes where laid in the orchard grass, gasps and moans where embraced by stone or thrust against the sands at the edge of an open sea.  Terns flirt at the shore, locked in pairs, as if tethered, they tango with waves as the waves break, run up the shore, and quickly draw back again.  In the sunlight, the calmest pools are blue satin.  Where shaded, the water is black velvet.

You can have, but not hold.

--Mitchell Hegman