The Beauty of a Flower in the Morning

A lock of hair fell across her
forehead
The warm, flickering light of the
candle
outlined the gentle shape of her
face
bringing forth the sweetness of
her lips,
the small pink tip of her tongue
as it so
lightly brushed those lips in that
nervous
gesture which so sensuously
characterized
those soft, perfect lips.

Her hand reached across the
table,
ever so gently covering mine.
The warmth, the smoothness of
the skin
as it touched mine.

The sensation that traveled
through those
hands to mine
Brought reverberations into my
heart
that were an ecstasy of their
own

They penetrated my very self as
her gaze,
accompanying the touch
Pierced my inner soul with the
fire
of a burning brand.

The fever pitch brought about by
the
fervent desire to take her in my
arms,
To hold the beauteous figure
before me,

To feel the gentle touch of her
lips
brushing mine

To feel the warmth of her
closeness
melding her to me

The candlelight, the wine, the
aura of her
All blended itself into a dream
become reality
By her very presence, her
freshness,
her touch, her smell, her taste,
her very being.

She and the night became one,
a maelstrom
of feeling that gradually
became a most
gentle, warm and overwhelming
envelopment
of one's being.

cg