Your red hair has
fallen over one eye
making the other
seem even larger
and  deeper green
against your creamy
skin

I know you.

Before you were born,
I read your face
in many fine books;
saw it look at me
from many fair paintings.

We met in many lives.

We will meet again.

Muses are eternal
and they are free.

I am not the first
poet you have smitten,
nor am I prideful
enough to imagine
I will be the last.

Doesn't matter.

What matters
is only this moment
and my eyes
meeting yours
for the first time
again.