I shall write thee morning, noon, and night
I will capture your eyes here upon the page
So some future sojourner may know,
This is she to whom I came at last
And painted best with words.
This is she whom I
Could sketch from memory;
The light lift of your nose from its start below your brow
And its following straightness,
Your eyes as brown as woodland earth
So delicately shrouded by sweet, exotic hoods
Bringing just a hint of your ancient horseman’s bloodline
To a noble English profile.
Handsome, you are my love,
A handsome, dashing dame.
I shall write thee morning, noon and night
Remembering the delicate weight of your breasts
Like the warm, downy softness of little birds nestled in my hands
And the smooth curve of your hip, its cunning, running slopes leading ever down.
While close against the long sweep of your back,
My lips brush your arm – there are no freckles there
On the smooth of your arm, I know it well
I memorize you
With the artists eye
Down to the bones beneath your skin
Burning the image of your loveliness into my heart
With the hot blade of love.
I shall write thee morning, noon and night
Yet shall not tire
Nor consume the endless source of you
How could I? When just the toss of your copper hair,
That one brief, unconscious gesture
Takes my breath away.
When I would paint for a month
To capture the charm and amusement in your sidelong glance?
When from the poets cup of your lips
With one kiss, I am drunk?
What lines await unsung upon your lithe limbs?
What in days and nights with you?
What in your undiscovered laughter, aye, and in your mortal tears?
And so, with words
I’ll paint the beauty of your being
Knowing all the while sweet agony:
I shall never capture you for that sojourner to know
Though I shall write thee morning, noon, and night.
