Lunch On Mackinac Island

Old wire chairs sit askew at glass top tables,

Cliff top, above the iridescent bay

Encircled by white sails

Silver shimmers, reflecting

Stark white china, Starched white linen

Bracketing wild flowers still startled

To be in a vase

Red chiles lounge, unzipped,

On a bed of green,

Embracing sweet tomatoes,

Pungent cheese curls, toasted nuts,

Flirting with drops of cold pressed oil,

And old wine

Dusted with just-snipped herbs

Encircling our plates

Tucked in a napkin lie

Flaky croissants open

To their steaming centers

Butter sliding into crevasses

Purple wine dances in crystal,

Floods our mouths

With layers and layers

Of velvet thrills

And there is a promise

That only I can see

In your golden brown eyes

That see only me

Sybilla

January 24, 2013