She sits under the shade of passion.
A nemesis to the toppled pedestal that lies in relief besides her amongst leaves.
As the day sails away, her floral blouse ripples to the hint of wind.
Illuminated in her repose; isn’t she beautiful?
Her lucid features pressed solemnly against the stem of bliss.
Her coy eyes fixed on the leaf
Which she strokes gently, then rips it with her trembling fingers: the paradox that she is.
I hope her tinder catches fire and the snooping breeze be scalded with her soaring intensity.
A poem by Tonny Wandella