Fair Lady
August 26, 2012

FAIR LADY

Fair lady of heart’s summer drought
Who slakes my thirst like Spring rain
Soft and delicate her fabric,
Her covering lines every gentle contour
Her skin catching evening’s sun, turning
hues
Prism-like into a palette of pastels
Few sights have drawn such yearning…
Few moments given such pull
To simply reach and touch so rich and
velvet skin—
Just to touch and nothing more.
Such gentle face and laughing lines,
Parenthesized by dimples,
Calls forth my own joyful laugh in
response.
If I had her for one starry night, all to
myself—
What a wonder to see those tiny
sequins,
Canopied light, sprinkle lightshafts
Down on her golden hair—
It would only take one such breathless moment to assure me
I would lack nothing by spending the
rest of my time
Just so–a captive of that very time
capsule—
To laugh, to love, to live.
You are the stuff from which dreams
are made—
It is you…yes, it is you…it is you.
If she would turn to me and look
For one brief moment, I think I would
melt,
And if not I would remain some clear
substance
For her to grab and hold.
At once she can see clear through me.
Would that it be for who I want to be
And not who I am…

Fair Lady
August 26, 2012

FAIR LADY

Fair lady of heart’s summer drought
Who slakes my thirst like Spring rain
Soft and delicate her fabric,
Her covering lines every gentle contour
Her skin catching evening’s sun, turning
hues
Prism-like into a palette of pastels—
Few sights have drawn such yearning…
Few moments given such pull—
To simply reach and touch so rich and
velvet skin—
Just to touch and nothing more.
Such gentle face and laughing lines,
Parenthesized by dimples,
Calls forth my own joyful laugh in
response.
If I had her for one starry night, all to
myself—
What a wonder to see those tiny
sequins,
Canopied light, sprinkle lightshafts
Down on her golden hair—
It would only take one such breathless
moment to assure me
I would lack nothing by spending the
rest of my time
Just so–a captive of that very time
capsule—
To laugh, to love, to live.
You are the stuff from which dreams
are made—
It is you…yes, it is you…it is you.
If she would turn to me and look
For one brief moment, I think I would
melt,
And if not, I would remain some clear
substance
For her to grab and hold.
At once she can see clear through me
Would that it be for who I want to be
And not who I am…