I tried to write
a poem to you,
and imagined:

Golden ripe
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.