It’s funny, when
I try to draw metaphors:
Silky lines pulled taught-n-
Tied; connect by poetic chores

You and grandiose imagery
I can’t. I could, but
I don’t. It’d be too easy
To compare you with what?

A lapping shore line?
Frothy rippled beauty hitting
In waves. Me, the fine
Sand crumble crushed, intoxicated, sitting.

Or maybe a great spanning tree
Knitting slowly a cool shade
For the parched grass blades of me
Who below you, blissful lay

I admit, it’d be easy, but it
Would never compare to
The lovely tang of your wit
The simple beauty that is you.