Her Lips My Loadstone

perhaps I have tipped my hand

letting her see my cards

grateful for her heartfelt interest and aberrant smile

grateful to embrace that lovely vulnerability deep inside her eyes

perhaps I have fallen for her archetypal woman’s lips

celebrating my weakness for vernal cherry blossoms

imagining her ebullient hands

becoming bookends to my face

perhaps have I reached out to her in haste

submitting to Aphrodite’s will

fascinated by Myriel’s kind heart I sense

my poet’s serene heart drawn by her Midwest simplicity

this dance along her garden’s path

allures and averts my attention

at once suggesting all that could ever be

yet maintaining a mere heartbeat to keep us alive