Poem a new Harvest

Poem a new Harvest

I could write a poem on the naked skin
of the woman I love.
My pen, a hand of petals,
of soft strokes and lines,
and rhythm and caressing psalms,
traversing the geography
of her thoughts;
A written journey through
the soft confines of her land of mine akin.
It would be for all a sacred temple,
an angel painted on its dome,
a place to call the world upon,
and yet, for me, alone to read.
For in verse, I would become,
by a muse so gently tamed,
my most glorious page,
for all of the faith to read and pray.
You, my Muse proclaimed,
my tree, my limbs, and eyes,
my ears, my nest to roost
in ways, I cannot reckon.