At the edge of sumac, sassafras and pine, shielded by the folio canopies you adore,
You nestle barefoot atop the carpet of moss, a simple thing the sun had no part in.
Just outside your sanctuaries rim, and the tips of your unfilled fingers,
sway a field of scented samples of all a woman is made of.
I am there, among this splendor and all their pampered beauty.
Buried but standing head to head with the perfection.
As if you were a volcano, they offer themselves to you as a sacrifice.
I won’t tender such obscenities. I can promise there will be no obstacles to where I stand.
In a crowd of beauty, I will stand out, not pushed aside.
Soothing your pain like a warm bath of liquid satin,
caressing your tired skin with a less than perfect touch.
Let the swirl of warm breezes turn you to the heart of this haven you have hidden within.
At the edge of sumac, sassafras and pine, see the brown eyes.
I am there.