Ripe On The Vine

Ripe On The Vine

I dream of your taste.
Sweet, succulent, juicy-ripe nectar,
Waiting to be plucked from the vine.

If I could just once more suck the juices from you,
Savoring each delightful drop,
Feeling the warmth of your moisture
As it slides down my throat.

If I could squeeze your juice to wine,
I’d drink each ounce of you,
A drunken reverie,
Uninhibited by time or reason.

The after-taste would remain,
A fond memory of a blissful moment,
A glorious stain imbedded in the fabric of my soul.
It too would remain, a lasting tribute
To the pleasure that was you.

© Rod Emmons, October 2006