The alpine shepherd calls lowly —
an ursine bellow to his milky-colored charges
that single-mindedly graze, burrowing
their heads to smell new grass.
The gradual lay of the land invites
only a leisurely inclination to wander
and the air settles cool and sweet:
a mantle and disposition it has nowhere else.
So sluggishly heeding his call,
the sheep raise no more than fond tolerance
from their likewise charmed guardian.
Petrified, my heart
Refuses your vain entreaties
Deny the charm of your
Which do insinuate
Like cold serpents.
Give me your kiss of sin
So I may spit the poison
Into the well of your being
Which I devour —
A rapacious beast.
How charming is
The posy in your pocket
The curl of auburn
Nestled in your locket
Your smiles at
Yellow daises and daffodils
By the meadow’s little rill
Which will run a hundred days
As long as your laughter plays