I watch the hands of the plowman.
Large, muscular, powerful.
How gently would they encircle my waist,
caress my lips,
part my thighs?

For years, I have seen the sun
shine down on him,
the sweat drip from his humble brow.

How I long to be that sweat!
Sliding down his face
to his lip
where his tongue might catch (me) it.

He sees me staring--
--I blush, turn my face,
but my eyes...
I cannot help but glance upward at him.

His smile, almost too much to bear!
I smile, bite my bottom lip.

He has no idea what I am thinking. (giggle)
I [am glad he doesn't/wish he did].