Quick to flare
she's the rage in a vicious glare.
Every move so graceful that
a haloed after-image shadows them.
Garlands of dandelions
matches her golden irises.
Sun-child, fey-like, wild
her laughter carries like pollen in the Spring.
The curve of her shoulder
infinitely lovely.
The arch of her foot
the ground kisses tenderly.
To speak to her of life
is to drink golden absinthe.
A drop sears the lips
a gulp burns the heart.
I, you entrance with
dances that mimick fires
of a great burning tree
whose wisdom go up in ashes.
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