The humidity clings to my dress causing it to grip to my hips
beads of sweat on my brow like rain drops on window panes.
I hate the smell of the hen house as I step in to retrieve eggs
hens set on roosts waiting for the moment to get rid of them.
I loathe thrusting them aside to gather the brown and whites
as I marvel at the beauties I hold in the palms of my hands.
My apron is full of goodies as my husband grabs me
pulling me closer in to him like two sick teenagers in love.
Our lips bond and his touch draw me closer to his body
and something begins to run down my legs…
screaming, “You’ve broken all the eggs, I’m a mess”
big blues cause my heart to flutter and the pinafore to drop.
In an instant there were “no” regrets his love was powerful
and my desire at its highest peak until our mouths were sealed
like mason jars I’d canned in the early morning of the day.
Young love causes lovers to act in strange and foolish ways
there were emotions, passions, and intimacies overpowering
every thought and feeling enclosed within the heart and soul.
A total sensation of being as one in a field of buttercups
emits a tenderness and a fancy to express our undying love.
Cows in the meadow moo in the background and hens cackle
as paramours share the aftermath of broken yolks and whites
mixed with egg shells, earth, weeds, and hilarious laughter
and commitments of the greatest love affair on earth.
Barbara Kasey Smith is the writer of this poem – use by permission only.
Barbara Kasey Smith @ Copyright 2013