My senses are tendrils and mimosas,
Intent, observant and ready to recoil;
Can’t bear heavy treads or rough hands
And hang and sway daylong in the air.
They curl and quiver in musical rings,
Tense, tensile and fragile to the touch;
My senses are sentient creepers
That warm and wake up at all hours
As trees approach or winds shake
And love filters through their pores.
They are brides new
Bashfully bent into a tautened bow
When nature is downy with whispers
Or squally with high winds and fiery lusts,
Wearing down all to a dark nakedness.
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