I'd sing of love revealed by woven lace
in elaborate patterns. The wide spectrum
of light illumines the heavens as I pace
between the oaks. I can hear the soft drum
of rain on the mud. The birds have a forum
in the branches pronouncing many delicate
songs between the leaves. The aged rum
and the sugar cane begin to complicate
our intoxicated love. The fabric indicates
her forms beneath it, her legs, thighs, hands,
neck and shoulders. I'd sing to fabricate
an image that fails her, that misunderstands
her glory and her power, and this I'll prove
through arguments that no man can remove.
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