Silky juices

embraced on tongue

rivulets running

dribbled chin

drizzled wet erotica

hot crimson guilt

erotic splashes.

In the snow is my childhood,

gloves on my feet because

I couldn’t find shoes to dash

out in as the first snow falls.

I stand in the yard,

arms towards the sky,

tongue out, cheeks red

as the mittens on my hands,

smile as pure as the driven snow.

Roots grow deep

bark gnarled and twisted

limbs reach to the sky

when its existence

began unknown

tree rings

could tell its secret

but infinity is grander

than a table.