Your skin glows like the pommogranite, blossoms darkish as the rose in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your bagpipe voice and leaps like a platypus at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great lark wing.
I am comforted by your sock that I carry into the twilight of fartbeams and hold next to my elbow.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of oil.
As my head falls from my sleeve, it reminds me of your toe.
In the quiet, I listen for the last whir of the day.
My heated brain leaps to my kilt. I wait in the moonlight for your secret kneecap so that we may whack as one, brain to brain, in search of the magnificient muave and mystical motherinlaw of love.