Butter Burdens

Expertly crafted, lovingly cradled

Playing on the evening’s soft, moist fingertips

The winds that carry the soul of the hills

The vanities and thrills

They softly skim the  ocean

Sending tiny tremors in its veins of blue

And I am reminded of a hand as delicate as a flower

As fragile as morning dew

Barely touching the surface, as it took butter out

With the passion of a seasoned lover

As she let the butter slip through her fingers

Into her upturned face, her red mouth

She looked at me, out of a corner of her doe eyes, that look lingers

And I nodded in agreement, illiterate and uncouth

It would be our secret.

 

 

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