"Come, let us pen a pretty poem"
said the Lady, one fine day;
"The whisper of your woven words upon the page, quite pleases me.
I shall write a line, or so; with which, at length, you then may play."
I wonder, which path will Her words set out on?
We must wait, and see.

Her words lie gentle, there before me; words of Love, both sweet, and fair;
Some care, is needed here, perhaps;
lest casual reader might arrive
[by reading t'wixt the lines;]
at some soft whisper, cloaked... which isn't there;
and, putting two and two, together;
then believes the sum makes... Five.

"She is most splendid to my eyes so dazzled, by her Shining Grace"
[Faint heart never won Fair Lady; nor sweet poetry, there grew;]
"Her figure would shame Aphrodite," and,"She has an Angel's face."
Though mystery, is She, beyond her words;
this, somehow rings quite true.

Perhaps, I should imagine Her
through Lover's eyes to verse this... sweet;
But, where then, do imagining...
and wishful thinking gently meet?