With an undulation,
waving her hand on the wind
it is an enchantment.
Her fingers implore the unveiling world
in a rush of
trees and rocks and hills
and acres and acres of wheat,
traveling through time.
And in her mirror,
the horizon slips back
into a crouching
a dutiful servant
after submitting to her charms.
I am struck by her smile, in a fashion of
a Rubens painting, with no bared teeth,
her contentedness demonstrated
with the upturned corners of her lips
and the slight pursing of the philtrum.
Her blue eyes, with the intent
of charm, gaze to a lens
focused only on her moment.
Yet, the little wisp of her auburn hair
that she holds aside,
with a barette
All for naught, he sometimes thought,
those very words that kept escaping
From his sight towards the light,
leaving him, all once, forsaken.
Empty minds with nothing – kind
as like a flighty pigeon taken.
Count obsession, three of seven
those whose thoughts that are not shaken.
Sliced as such, but not too much,
when they only just awakened.
Cupboard’s bare with little spare,
save pumpkin bread and crispy bacon.