Supple?
She is a fresh Tchoupitoulas berry,
the fresh cream on Commander’s pie.
She is a rest from my long day,
a caress through long nights.

Fleeting?
The air whispers her passing.
In a rush she flashes, hot
she sprints away — toward the sky;
the air crackled, white behind her.
Her brush pleases and passes and cracks like lightning
swift, merciless, ecstasy.

Beloved?
to all,
and she is all,
to this one

Free?
Not a hand in love,
Not a fist in hate,
Not a word with wisdom,
Not a syllable of fate,
No chains grip tight her wrist,
to abate her speeding flight.

She will roar away, or she will float free
of tethers,
as Earthly, caring, confused, scared, lonely,
as me.