Of A Morning

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Impotent are my words,
For moments of knowing crave eloquence beyond my wit.
Inadequate and as blunt a tool,
As the woodsman’s axe to prune a blessed rose.
That I should by chance,
Stray upon a wild orchid, hiding within long, secure grass,
And kneel down to part its tendriled hood,
The better its sweet purpose deeply understood.
It is as I regard your sleeping form,
A tussled head, a perfect back and watch you,
Oh I watch you.
My hand explores your silk smooth skin,
And with care,
Caresses, rounded cheeks and in-between,
The velvet, wet dark folds,
That guard the centre of your universe,
The secret knowledge there to glean.
But how can my poor conjured words,
Communicate the value that I place on you.
Proud, complicated Soul,
Your trust is valued as I would a moonbeam’s
Treasured traces playing through my hand.
For I have so much yet to learn.