Should I pose her, feigning sleep, 
upon a fallen tree 
in diamondesque vision 
against the uneven umber 
of dead wood? 
A beauty such as she 
would reflect in any colour, 
or glisten, silverly 
asleep with moss blankets 
and spirals of vine. 

Could I sweep with brush 
and stroke the delicacy 
of her length of limb, 
gliss the banquet of her berried lips, 
smooth the tendrilled halo of her auburned mane, 
entangled with blue flower on the oak? 

I could devour her succinctly, 
her palette of youth-danced blue 
and swirls of blended patchouli 
and golden-ended grasses. 

As shimmer of wind flits in light 
and shadow on her reclined form, 
I would swear her to be perfection, 
and would cast orchids, should she bade 
me gild the forest with my hand. 

copyright January 2002
Cindy D'Adamo