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She drifted into sight, a summer's day
whose heat and light she featured like a flower,
an ornament at eye-level to play
celestial notes, but whose full chord-like power
is meant to stir, though passed off here as mere
excess, her passing proof, the feast and famine
in counterpoint: what must the technique here
admit, nor can she tell, merely delights in.
Like an affair, it's here one moment, gone
the next, the ecstasy and pain, the type
the passing glance can fathom, and forewarn:
she feels it, like an odour of fruit, ripe,
yet unobtainable; the glance she draws
as much the same that makes her mine her yours.
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