Tart Apples

How empty was the beach 
That November morning. 
She and I were the only ones 
Disturbing the wide sandy strand  
With our footprints.

The weary lighthouse

Stood as sentinel

On the promontory

Surrounded by a narrow railing

And concrete walkway.

Shielded from eyes

That were not there anyway

We walked to the far side

Of the lighthouse.

I leaned against the edifice

And she into me

Back to belly.

My arms secured her

While we watched the waves

Nip at the beach.

Her long hair caught the breeze

Like the unfurling of a bright banner.

She turned into me

With a laugh as clear as a bell

And she kissed me.

Her kiss was free and wanting.

The crisp air and rhythm of the waves

Disappeared.

The entire universe condensed

Into her searching kiss.

Eventually we walked back to my car

And found a small café

For coffee and Danish.

But my heart returns

To the lake side of that lighthouse

Remembering her kiss

That was like a bookmark

In a long novel.

A man may have hundreds

Perhaps thousands of kisses

In his life

Each categorized into some file

In his fading memory.

If lucky

He may have one kiss like hers

Innocent yet wanton

On a grey November morning

Standing on the weather side

Of a century-old lighthouse

Her kiss like tart apples

Upon lips of pearl.