The Mayberry

She cuts the binds that wind and wind,
and the Mayberry has never looked
as it looks and sways, she says
the glow worms will be brighter this year.

As active mole, his fur a prize,
cries Carpe Diem to one and all
carnivorous he feasts on worms
left in the sunlight his poor body squirms.

He takes a hoe and cuts a swathe
overflowing her abundant breast heaves,
he cleaves and cuts and still she shoots
her moisture held in dark damp depths.

They mix and carve, moisture oozing
she soothes the brown that sweats
and reaching beneath her apron
he encounters all, that all could have.

The Mayberry has never looked
and paths will be lit, she swats away
as damp curls ring in fairy swirls;
senses will be heightened in a rising moon.