You seem more exquisite in beauty to me
than the scent of all flowers.
Though I only catch a glimpse of your soul
wafting on the wind as I pass by your glances.
I only know the scent of your essence in modes of poetry,
through the images, the voice, perhaps poetic license,
but these sensations arouse more memories
of things to be than the scent of all flowers.
Though I only glean your meanings
by the subtle shadings of your eyes,
and the way they shine when you sense surveyal.
Though I only know you now by conjecture,
this scent alone is still greater, still sweeter than that of all flowers.
And though the thought of a taste tantalizes the tricklings of my dreams,
you are far beyond the reach of these fingers.
So, like wine I take this poem, this soul,
this scent that drifts to me
across the ridge of impossibility
and I breath, deep like the wind sighing on the sea.
Your taste in the air almost surprises me,
but like a cat, my senses are tuned to these things.
They translate smells to taste, dreams to being.
In proxy you slip past my tongue to cling
to the back of my throat, dripping
slowly like syrup, lingering for hours.
A sweetness greater than that of all flowers.






Copyright 2004 by Cordelia Ridley

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