It seems . . . time impels the night
and as such incites it to glide--
telegraphically carefree.

And through the aura of moonbeams
stubbornly nudging
the tenebrous, bedimmed darkness
of early morning,
the blossoming redolence of scented flowers
in a rain doused forest
tantalizes and flusters my consciousness.

And, as I lean forward to gently grasp
and behold,
a dew-drenched petal sensuously brushes past
and touches me.

In that lingering, gratifying moment . . .
The metamorphosis now replete
instantaneously,
a scintilla of reality comes into being.
And, I find the essence of your nectar--
your julep lips on mine!