Fiddlehead

a poem

In the space between my breasts 
the back of her hand 
rests like a fiddle head, 

a fern, waiting to unfurl.
I look over her smile-quiet face 
and see her papa, 
he who peeled her oranges 
and left the perfume 
in her hair.

She can turn between us,
our complication of limbs, 

In this simple intricacy
we make a nest for her 
to hatch her dream eggs in.

Did you glance this way and linger for a full minute on these sweet words? Did you fall in love a little with something indefinable? Did you dip deeper into your synaptic forests to share a little of your humanity with me? If you loved it so, consider restacking or recommending and if you are flush this week consider a tip! I adore you whatever path you take!