Gardenia laden breeze
flutters lace curtains.
Nightgown clad,
right silk strap slips.
Gentle hands reach slowly
rest lightly on shoulders,
wait patiently.
She sits alert, but melting.
His hazel-flecked eyes ask.
No words. Just asking eyes.
She smiles shyly, nods,
and quietly murmurs yes.

Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Bjorn asks us to include the word “eye” or a form of the word, within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!