Maybe she was Russian black or
maybe my imagination,
but she moved like snow on peppermint,
slow and tasty and
much to my amazement,
she melted lines upon my face and
stepping light on all the right stones
making magic with these old bones
melted into her.
With several leaps into frustration
my destination marker hardly
changed at all, though
I had run through cracking panes of glass
where reflections would not let me pass
I saw the end.
She blew a kiss and disappeared
I flew into a rage and feared that
I would die,
angels do not work that way they
reappear another day,
with pepperminted tongue in cheek
I shall be silent and not seek
Russian black or red or white
snow and peppermint at night
is my desire.
I light the fire and wait for her
to come and dine with me
and share my appetite.
© 2015, John Smallshaw.