Brunette

His hand touches those free-flowing robes That falls to the floor like a spent rose Strewn aside where a moonbeam adobes She lay on her bed with both eyes closed. Hopeless as a meandering vine Restless down a wooden banister His fingers interlocked and entwined. They redefined each silky parameter. He sensed her earlobes now attuned That last throbbing motion and sound. The hairs on her neck no longer importuned Ground basement needs icebound. Hopeless she lingered, like a fly in a web, And even bit his lower lip scarlet red. Switching the tables, she planned them wed. Now wasn't she a hot, hot brunette?