Moringa

Beneath the moringa tree
she holds for me a spark.
A firefly to burn above
our caressing shadows.

Beneath the moringa tree
her voice is rustling leaves.
Her eyes are polished stars.
The tree itself, a great wooden snare
I'll be caught beneath for hours,
-Beneath the moringa tree.

Like the sweet taste of fruit at midsummer,
Cinnamon and saffron,
Beautiful shadows move,
beneath the moringa tree.

And there,
I push aside her hair
like silk curtains,
and whisper her name.
There,
I bring my lips to her ear
and touch at her fingertips.

Precious angel.
The color of flowers.
Moving with me...
Beneath the moringa tree.

Copyright © 2006 Aaron S. Cook