Whoever said beauty is fleeting
that from firm flesh soon passion
must run out, had never
held their sight on you —
those irrepressible lips
folded by stormy and long held kisses
Thighs as warm as thunder claps
No. More. Like standing ovations
of the sky!
these real things
like well-tressed clouds
do clear; yet they will never
even though new springs bare
fresh scents and flowered fields
fade from my memory. So neither
shall your rampant youth.