Woman of Mint
She hauls her desire from the anguish of thorns,
whispering: sunlight abides in you.
She is followed by the aroma of a fleeting moment
which she ignites with the perfume of Spring.
Not once does she gasp for breath.
Only wild nettle sates her desire:
his hair alone will make her easy.
His presence delights the scenery.
He populates vacancy.
He takes the pure mint with the force of his leaves,
scarring her deep inside.
His sting... his victory.
Her breath stopped, as if for eternity.
Then he tickles her elbow with his sting.