The Ice Cream Sutra

The secret taste, my own hand is completing, ice cream.

A private joy, the moaning, the fleeting, ice cream.

My unplayed sonnet craves for a maestro's crescendo.

A freezer’s siren song, I’m powerless, beckoning, ice cream

My desires, untamed garden, unexplored, ignored,

A frozen bliss, in pleasure's heat, I'm needing, ice cream.

Remorseful echoes haunt my yearnings, an abandoned hall,

Useless empty calories to be worked off, sinning, ice cream.

A painter’s brush, my hands splatter ecstasy, uncontained,

Flavor's colors, in pleasure's heat, dripping, ice cream.

Wisp of my scent, a memory of vanilla and sea salt, 

Sugar cone explodes, no napkin, fingers sticking, ice cream

Imagined lover, I cup myself, between fingers, a slow pull,

Creamy soft serve cup, caramel drizzled, spooning, ice cream

Flavors of passion, spices of desire, I’m taste-testing,

Wandering endless isles, reading labels, discovering ice cream.

In pre-dawn mist, my sighs rise soft to kiss the sky,

Candy sprinkles scattered on hot fudge; uplifting ice cream.

Beneath the stars, my haven whispers, Gaia’s soothing grace,  

In every touch, I find my truth, my love embracing, ice cream.