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she walks in the beauty of my thoughts
in my thoughts she is beauty
as she glides though natural
endeavors
she is not the stick that snaps
in the woods under the foot
of a fox
and her footprints ramble in
directions of the easiest pleasure
that i must distance my fears from
her moments are not mine
her pleasure is savored
in ways that slip through
the knuckles of my fingers
her beauty is the stroke
of a summer frog
along the grassy shore
and her notions unfold
in souvenirs of grandeur
in conversations
that have no story
they are beautiful
if i try not
to own them
The poem is even more breath-taking on a second reading!
Starward
Breath-takingly exquisite; this is a real work of Art. This poem establishes you, all of its own, as one of the most important love-poets on postpoems. To you I say, as I quote from Dante, Il Miglior Fabbro.
Starward
That poem was beautiful. keep writeing.