She stops to smell sad flowers that
mistake themselves for weeds, an
affinity she learned these years gone by.
Plucks one that smells of sunlight
and bathes her hair in it,
the light dancing meringues, and
with the golden blue of eyes,
turn a dangerous green.
Now of nature – she and summer sweat –
fly to the south where dreams begin,
equatorial passions beckon, and
the smell of overripe fruit drips
between her perfect breasts.
A child, still at the border,
but woman in full bloom when she arrives.
Tosses straw hats o’er breaking watered cliffs.
Her hair has stolen the colors of the setting sun
and she is humid in her woman places
like the land she now possesses.
Muse shall be her lover
and song shall be her child.
Strong, sinewed thighs claim the beach,
tender toes spread and sex the sand
welcome its wet embrace. Her skin kissed
by the remnants of equatorial suns,
she is ocean and fury and wind
that ripples finger through her hair
and stars that fight for her eyes’ attention.
But to the south she keeps her eyes,
from the north and winter lovers.
She sits, softly, at peace
in her conquered Latin quarter,
unsheathes her favorite sword
and with her mighty pen,
writes her happy endings
by the equatorial ocean
where lovers reach no more.