Green Tea

The pad of his thumb circles
the freckle above and
to the right of my navel, spirals
of grass woven hair fall on
faces looking into sun,
limbs golden glow
green tea taste familiarity and
soapy flannel smell, his lips
tongue on the small of my back, baby sweet
kisses of sleepy Sunday
mornings, crawling through green melon, dripping
lush scoreror's bounties, aching
hungrily climbing his limbs
enveloping sweet smell
of sweat seeking his thights.

This is the easy part, I think,
as our chests find familiar
rhythms over and over again.