Honeysuckle

By
Christopher J. Thomasson

Bright day,
Shining sun,
Blinding.
Windows down,
Wind in my hair.
A certain smell,
Fills the air.
I stop,
I stair,
There’s honeysuckle
Over there!
I pick off
One tender flower.
I pull the stem,
Sweet honey
The drop is there.
I touch it
To my tongue,
A sensual
Caress of honey
Satisfies my craving.
If Spring
Is a drug,
Then honeysuckle’s
My high.

The End

Copyright April 2001 by Christopher J. Thomasson

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