How am I to resist her?
Curvaceous alive within her, trembling life,
her twining, earthen pale legs capture me
helpless in urgent boundaries.
I become indigenous to her motion;
her tendonic, muscular sweet clasp ~
how a woman's thigh and gleaming backbend arcs
like a rainbow's swoon bending all powers down upward bound~
how the dark orchid dreams.
Her hips like hands gather the song of her breasts.
Oh how I am sung and the bluebird spirits
her nipples and springtime meadows kiss to the faces
of dreaming lovers asleep in the mists,
the dews and remembrance of hopes
my lips glide their oboe theorum hum.
The butterfly, wizardly, less innocent than free
I so am sung Rembrandt glossy, to brilliance
the nightingale carries as droplets of dawn ~
whorled is the bluebird through pollen and airs.
Her throat curves to my song she has thrummed.
Adding your comment:
This is such a brilliant penning, Danny. Yes, I would still think so even if it wasn't written for me...even if I hadn't watched you write it with my very own (glittering, gleaming, shimmering) eyes. You are so much more than "merely" a magnificent writer, my Darling One...You are an exotic, unique, superlative, exemplary Soul...one I am honored to know, to touch, to love. You, Sir...you hold my trembling, swan~like heart in your hands...your beautiful, tender hands. I love you, Mister. So much, words can only fail me. Yes, words fail even a Poet...even a librarian who has studied etymology. Sometimes...only silence will do. I shall leave this computer now...& stroll softly, quietly over to the couch where you sit, patiently waiting for me to finish...& I shall begin, yet again, to speak to you in a language we have begun to invent, just for us. My God, how you honor me. How you thrill me. How very deeply you move me...♥ 
