The curve of her lower back;
delicate, elegant, the arc of a golden spiral.
A half-turned head and smile
before she spins, with her hair like a river of stars,
draping arms around your neck; arms
draped lazily, perfectly,
freshly in a new-minted moment,
like foam forming over the peak of a wave.
The angle of her wrist is a blossom falling to cobblestones at dawn;
an old path, renewed in daylight.
Now, look into her eyes and
let them pluck you from your mind;
let them pull your heart out, beating in still water.
Are you not awake?
There’s wisdom to be found in innocence.
Can’t you see it in the dust, swirling golden
in the warm sunlight?