She is fire, even before I touch her
She is crazy like an evening summer storm
But in her mascara applied eyelashes, in her black eyeliner
I found the calm deep ocean
I stand beneath them and breathe.

She is a river, in white, short skirt
With beautiful legs,
With the red scarf, symbolizing every inch of her poetic grace
Any man's heart can stop looking at her
I look at her in amazement as she brought with her
My lost poem of youth.

Her neckline, studded with ruby beads and junk jewelry that matches with her shiny black hair,
Tumbles down through the valley of unannounced sanctity and wild desire
Before her eyes, fell on me.
She nibbled an apple, half
And threw it in the basket
I stare at the darkness of the basket, the fallen apple, and then again at the light on her face

We both trembled, shivered
We stand there, as it is,

She in the magnificent exuberance of her youth
And me, in shy appreciations

At one time, I walk away
Gifting her all those pages of the poem, with blessings
But, woman, I have inherited your beauty forever in me!