Late of evening
in the summer-set of years,

he of cerulean eyes
lured she of doe-spun brown
to fertile mating grounds
windswept of passion's fire.

Yet, when night overshadowed
daylight's destiny,

when two in a thousand met,
when fate had shaken their hands
leaving its palm-print on their hearts;

then as two moths capering
in bulb-lit spheres,
two lovers' wing tips brushed

and for one minuscule
fragment of time
were joined together

in an intimate coupling
of ecstacy and rhyme.