Morning paints itself across the tops of foothills. Night's chill retreats, having never found purchase; the bonding of skin to skin ensured this.
Laughter paints itself across the tips of your smile. Day's warmth is foretold in your eyes - in my eyes. Dawn's envious strokes attempt to match the colors we see.
Passion paints itself across the valleys and foothills of our dreams - across the rise and fall of head on chest. Peace strecthes, yawns and weaves itself among our ever willing, labored breaths. We rise.
This poem is wonderful. Not only is it well crafted and flows very well, but your word choices and the imagery you create from them is incredible. It's soft, it's sensuous, and it works all the way around. Wonderful work
Thank you, Poet. Alas. Our muses work hours of their own choosing, don't they? LOL When we're really lucky, though, they walk with us throughout our days. Bless me, Muse, for I have penned. It's been twelve hours since my last profession.
Come whisper words into my pen; come fold me into song. Then, as the melody unfurls, we'll share each morning's dawn.