Your dank, heavy footfalls pound upon my porch,
the sound that sends other women to shelter.
But I crave the shadow of your presence,
your dark flowing body,
the way you seep into barren soil,
your fertility making mother wet,
her mound growing fat, seeds sprouting
in the wake of your thunderous passion.
I'd run naked to greet you,
if the neighbors wouldn't gossip.
I stand under your brooding cascade,
the earthy musk of your being
sopping the romantics waiting
to be caressed by your dripping fingertips.