The Pine Grove

I will hold you there,
In the bitingly cold air
Of early March,
In a place
Where only the pine trees,
Like silent sentries,
Will see us.

I will grasp the folds
Of your old cotton shirt,
While whisking winds
Circle us,
Stirring pine needles
Around our feet
That touch as we kiss.

I will slip my hands
Beneath the waistband of
Your jeans, feeling
Warm skin, a respite
From the brisk and bitter,
Wet and waking
Morning in the pine grove.