By Linda M. Crate
vignettes of maple leaves
cling to your eyes in green;
your hair is burnt sienna not
quite auburn but a shade past —
your skin is ivory like snow,
your lips crimson as cardinals;
your perfume of mint I find
intoxicating as I breathe you
in shallow breaths of fog, a
silver enigmatic love that is
washing all over me in arms
softer than bouquets of rose
kisses that you plant all over
me; blooms of goose bumps
emerge not because of heat
or lack thereof but because
of the intensity of your love
more dulcet than angry waves.
Linda Crate is a twenty five year old Pennsylvanian native with a degree in English-Literature. Her poetry has been published in various magazines the latest of which include: Dead Snakes, The Camel Saloon, and Carnage Conservatory.
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