I tried to write
a poem to you,
and imagined:
Golden ripe
wheatfields
in the winds of the mind.
Too still.
A lupine form,
running swiftly
in the light of the moon.
Too dark.
A tiger at rest
licking itself,
ready to kill.
Too animal.
Puppies rolling around
in the yard
on bright summer day.
Too young.
Alas I have found
no metaphor true,
only two words to describe
my vision of you,
my love.