I gather round her merely to taste
her infinite beauty. The simple forms
and lines are dancing as she moves a paste
behind the textile. I gather her firm
limbs and surfaces, but she just squirms
between my fingers. I'm lost in a maze
of words and meanings, the trumpets alarm
the people of the storm's wrath. I gaze
into her eyes like dawn, the grey haze
of mist obscures the mysteriously bright
light. That gentle spirit that has dazed
lovers left without granting a straight
path. The light revolves around in rings
reminding me of all the songs she sings.
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