Woman

Where can I begin with such a thing

as the perfection that is woman?

Do I start at the top looking down

or begin dutiful at her feet

bowing to her dignified bearing?

Do I focus on her distinctness

or just go with the flow of my heart?

Do I back any of my senses

or cede to touch the basic advance?

Do I kiss every centimetre

or imagine some of her finesse?

Do I listen to her pert heartbeat

or attempt to turn it into song?

I loved you before I was born;

I’ll love you when my youth is worn.

Do I tell her, I love you my love

or simply present to her the part?

Do I taste her skin with my parched lips

or let my tongue circumvent, sidestep

any time that existed before?

Do I think of thespian Juliet

or immerse in her exuberance?

What do I do dearest parapet

from brain to heart to brain evermore?

What can I do, my beauty of yore?

Love lasts as long as the heart beats short

stretched out cadenced syllables of love

and my heart may not be enough strong.