Another 3-6-9 prose poem: three verses, 69 words each not counting headings.
The thermometer reads 20 degrees F. I’m huddled on the couch under blankets and quilts. The old furnace wheezes and grunts to bring the room to a balmy 59. I’m dreaming summer evenings on a winter morning.
I dream the warm scents: spices, musks, summer florals. I dream the first scent
I recall, that magic perfume that rose with dusk, magnified on evening mist. A
fairy net to capture.
Only one scent could distract me from playing hide and seek with fireflies in the darkness, pulling me toward creamy petals, a cone shape that beckoned the tongue, made it twitch. A bulbous tip nodded proudly on the end of the stamen rooted in her velvet core. Honey suckle. The name begs. The name insists.
To suckle her honey, you must pluck the blossom, deflower, pinch the stamen’s base.
You have to go gently, drag the shaft back through that tight tunnel. Your mouth waters. Your tongue is poised to catch. Nectar gathers around that fat head as it emerges. One glistening drop. Inhale perfume. Catch heaven on your tongue. So sweet. It drives the craving to pluck, slide, lick, repeat, into the depth of a summer night.
Innocence stolen from summer’s eve to warm a winter day.
Today’s prompt from Sunday Scribblings was: delicious. See what other Sunday Scribblers wrote.