Vanilla, do you remember the pleasure?
The kind taste of softly regarded fruit,
the pleasing joy made easy and demure
by dainty flowers cast of sun and root?
This delicious honey overwhelms–
“Peace,” I whisper and drink the embrace.
Toss our weapons aside and accept our new alms–
fresh melons and berries picked without haste,
fish torn from the spume by warring women
armed with old rods and ocean tangled hair.
Sun baked bodies begin to knit and mend.
Our pleasure rests on accepting the dare.
A new life at the end of a dangerous road
finding new happiness in our abode.