People said that “her hair was as black and as wild as the grackles which kept vigil at her window.”
I don’t know if this is true, but I can tell you that it framed her face with visions of midnight dances against the glowing embers of a January fire.
Her laughter was a song, almost lost to the capricious winds that made sailors dream of spice islands and nights spent in the arms of desire.
They say the her lips were succulent berries, plucked from vines no man has seen before or since. Men would swear that if you kissed them long enough, passionately enough, you would taste the essence of ecstasy.
The contours of her form were meant for delight, joy, and enchantment.
Goddess, woman, stuff of fairy tales; I do not know which.
But I do know that I loved her once.
she dreams of knights and maidens fair
and wonders now if she should dare
to see beyond her virgin’s bed
a man who yearns see her wed
who, swept up with passion’s thrall
would beseech her to forever call
his favored name as her true love
a radiant blessing from above
if only she should dare to pray
that he will find her some golden day