The Sound of Oars (Flower Urn / Bow Bridge / Central Park, NY)

There is softness
In the Sound of Oars
Like whispers from your lips
Your blue eyes gazing
‘neath gentle wind hair teasing
Brushed by fingertips
As ripples seek unseen shore
From that softness
In the Sound of Oars
Cupid’s bow is taut
I am bleeding, hit
And I am yours