Satin-textured shamrock flower,
whose eyes chrome the seas
of the faded cushioned theatre seats,
with their sparkling, piercing power--
You,
saunter sprightly up and down,
lyrical laughter over-bounds,
in quick-timing
to the taste
of your Irish school-girl ways.

We take time enough to see,
those livid, lush-red cheeks,
(ripe, rose-blushed every time
as you savour sweet the wine)
that sanctifies
your softly senses,
sans pretenses,
whereon your wings of
wonder float and fly.

Scented, tactile spirit-showers,
all the joy we need,
as the stage-light's haunting beam,
Sheers the magic of this hour--
You,
lightly lift us off the ground,
set us oh, so softly down
upon those rhyming wisps of air
that caress your auburn hair.

Now, I, a poor poet,
upon this paper
play
pleasing poetics of your praise,
whilst the ink upon these lines,
dries far faster than the tears
falling
from my wistful, yearning eyes
in exaltation of
your Wings of Wonder Ways.