She, herself, will be,
soon be here - come.
Coming here.  Here.
Into this refuge of ours.
This cave
This palace
Her hips, make me
nervous for they move
So very well
In my arms, her twinkle
In my eyes
Her love, I love
In my hands

I think of her more
I am finding,  
as each day passes,
And they say
you're supposed to.......
Get used to this?
I don't want to
Why would anyone
want to get used to this?
It is intoxication of
The soul, a madness
Made before we
Invented our own
lesser versions.

It's too important
to ever become
Some smallish event
Her arrival, to me
In our refuge
Our cave
Our palace
It's like the first rain
for many days
as it touches
A dried out
forest floor

Little creatures scurry,
in case it's only dew,
and soon will be done
and gone;
But I don't need
to do that.
She is no line of dew
In the bower
of shaded hazel
But a torrent
from the old heavens
Drowning me,
in content.