The books scent lingers on her fingers
Lightly tying up her loose ends till they read
Like Shakespeare carved on a tree for all to see.
Her lover sips her coffee with an elegance only history
Understands;

She is the girl who leans across her rhymes and reasons
And bends her binding around her waist.

She is a woman whose strength
Pauses a book store into a silent stillness;
A muse that is written across my face
As she traces the pages of their story, closing the chapters
With the bite of a lip and a touch of a cheek.

Hers recite the poetry of rosebuds blooming in a far off place.

Still she knows that next season only memories may grow, but today
The taste of her lips remind her of those yet to be sown.