Girl, it’s a grave thing to look at you with ageing eyes —
you with your leafy shoulders dappled in sun, tangy like an
orchard, and your hair adrift on the light shifting
behind the swell of your breast and the down
and dew on your arms, and the shy breeze
giddy with your apple scent.
Once I’d have been giddy too:
wordless — or worse, too full of words —
and you’d have smiled at me with a different kind of smile,
full of what if, and our eyes might have met with a
yes, or at least a maybe,
but either way our eyes would have said
what’s next
instead of just hello.
It’s a grave thing to look at the light in your hair
and meet your weightless smile with my own smile
and hope simply that your arms will be filled one day
with as much love as the world can give.
