Delicate is Heidi (poem)

Delicate is Heidi, petal for petal, as graceful and intricate and involving as a precious garden bloom.

I pay awkward lip service as she passes by for the second time this morning.
Immediately our eyes meet, and exchange, like words, the fondness of a silent affection not yet consummated by our actions.

Her smile is warming, and swells as her lips, those plump and velvety marvels, draw like curtains upon the strong, white players of her mouth.

She is unlike beauty, for beauty is but the tritely habit of calling things beautiful.
Rather though, she is beauty, for by its embodiment is manifest the mere folly of my contemplation.

I am likened to an ocean by its promise to deposit and retrieve the enacted sentiments of the shore.
Forever exploring the beaches onto which I wander; yet I am neither present, nor imposing for very long.
Preferring instead the rhythmic motion of the attraction, to the surely dire end of a love that any God would disallow.

I dare breathe and she is suddenly visible.
Only she is my breath, a deep plentitude of essence that draws life into my thoughts, and renders my baffling, trifling, painstaking existence that much more bearable for a time.

We are friends until I move away, leaving the next line dangling.
My words find it difficult to intrude upon such genuine admiration.
For it is not often that I find contentment in this world, what with its barbed wire fences and barbershop quartets.
Divinity is seldom as authentic as it is contrived.

Her eyes single me out in the room.
My heart holds still, lest it be someone behind me whom she presently notices.
Should gratification come too swiftly, I could find myself broken anew.
Alas, it is me she seeks, and her smile warms me and dispels my fears once more.

No amount of darkness could conceal the light of her manner.
She is silvery and soft, with skin as smooth as that of a ripened eggplant.
Fair and delicate, graceful and long; God must have wanted to be close to her, for her frame stretches romantically back toward Heaven.
And her eyes, oh, those carefully plotted accents of color that so effortlessly render my will pliable and loose.
Her eyes are of a fresh, glacier blue, profound promise of the depth of her soul.

We are friends until I move away, reluctant to venture past the tasted soil of my homeland.
I wish she were my home, and I wish it were so, I wish it were so.
For home is lovelier a place when there is promise of a good woman’s embrace.
Enamored with raindrop kisses that fall so freely to my ginger lips, and hopeful of days and nights alone, gilding one another with rich love, and passionate devotion, and joyous celebration.
I wish it were so, though as I already know, hope is a weak one, where virtues go.

Perhaps it is enough to simply be in love with the thought of someone.
Enthralled by the mind’s effortless abandon of reality for subjectivity.
Devoid of all sense and reason, and immersed instead in the constant self-deceptive repetition of a serenade to the clouds.
Can a mind live in such a nonsensical world? Or would it then become nonsensical itself?
Can the object of my affections be so far removed from harboring such affections herself?

Again she passes by me, on her way past.
An idea presses me to listen, offering a way to salvation at last.
I should express to her my feelings, and let my true self breathe.
For in all likelihood I am ready, to toss aside the past and lead.

____

JNEP – 28/07/08 (10/01/02)
“I am, at any passing glance, but an idea that needed to be realized.”