Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
    There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his ***** Spring, when fancy clear
    Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
    Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
    Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
    He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness--to let fair things
    Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

Tea in hand
Sun on my back
Wind on my face
That is called love

i'm still in love with a boy
born in the hottest days of summer
with hair as wild as the winds of the north.

the boy with a heart of gold
and the soul of a small child.

the boy who could probably be a time traveller
in his next life,
just inches away from the galaxies
of his imagination.

I fell asleep to the sound of the ocean

the waves reminded me of the way you repetitively touched me -

softly and fiercely, all in one motion

and I wish I could feel that same exhilaration one more time

{hjl}

your eyes are hurricanes;
they enrapture me in their
stormy green-blue shades,
they whisk me away
like alice
to your wonderland.

your lips are earthquakes;
each quiver
of those perfectly curved lips
make me tremble and shake
inwardly
and my knees buckle without
my knowing.

your hands are tsunamis;
they travel up and down,
a mind of their own,
aliens.
they caress every curve and edge,
study every detail of
the skin
over my muscles and bones.

you, my dear
are a spectacle indeed.