Under a tangled arch
of willow, ivy, and rose,
she presses me back,
back, against the rich loam, back,
her fingers sly, her smile arch,
her lips tipped with rose.
Ever since the moon rose
she has loved me well: my back
is a bow, a lover’s arch.
I arch my neck, cursing the rose-tinged dawn that calls her back.
A tritina for this month’s Poetry Slam retrospective and YeahWrite’s 400th consecutive week!