Would that I could touch her hair,
those waving locks of a brown river,
in the heat of summer.
So soft, like the new pelt of a doe
and as silky the lushest gossamer.
The Longing to wrap myself in
her long tresses and drink up
their scent of honey suckle
is too tempting to my lustful senses.
When I look into her eyes
the I can see whole universe
reflected in their dark, blue
pools surrounded by the whitest
plane of liquid snow. And in their
centers is the black hole of knowledge
with its playful gleam of mystery.
In this darkness—sweet mystery—
I lose myself for hours, seeking
what lay behind those orbs
Her lips are mocking smiles,
sly roses that sweet promises
slip between. I do not care
whether falsehoods or honesty
are spoken so long as I can hear
the melody in which she speaks.
Oh, crimson messenger,
how can you bring me such delight
and such pain?
I’d rather see my love fly through
a field of the greenest meadow
flecked with the wildest flowers
in a gown of rainbow-white
than see all the sunsets of this earth.
Forgive me, Great Creator, but the sun
which burns in the sky and lights my
every day is the darkest shadow
when set next to my love.
The sensual touch of her honey skin
is smoother than purest water
and warmer than sheets heated by the sun.
Her softness is purest joy in its tenderness.
Touching this flesh is better pleasure than
the fat of Shea upon my own skin.
Give me my love but only to touch
and look upon and I shall be satisfied.