Poetry

Soft Tresses

It’s 35 degrees out,
but I’m wearing my hair loose,
because it feels so good,
to have it stroke my back,
though the smooth tresses tickle,
they sway so light.

Brown-black waves,
nourished by the warmth within,
carried by the breeze without,
flirt with a girlish ease,
though the damp air stifles,
they hiss a good fight.

Back and forth,
the strands swing and fickle,
play with the slight wind,
and make love to the skin,
though the caresses tingle,
they tarry on for Aphrodite.

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