words and space, selected and arranged
Is this, once more, the first I saw her face?
How keeps my love a form that's ever new?
Her beauty speaks the spell of pen to page--
Now purple prose, now lyric pleas in blue.
When roused, she is as firm as ancient law.
Distracted, she's a meditative tract.
A comic scene may follow thereupon--
In Beckett's drone, absurdist tit for tat.
Each spring, she works the earth of Russian song.
By harvest, she's a chanted Celtic prayer.
This morn she rose: an orange Homeric sun.
Last night she was the heat of Baudelaire.
Her script is rare: she's penned in my life's blood,
For beauty is the private side of love.