Seeing you, I see the girl still,
Whose cornsilk hair flows through fingers
Reticent yet sure, where fear
Of time no longer lingers.
In your widening glance, I see light
Fall gently through morning mist
Upon the sullen, little lake,
Where we rode our bikes and kissed.
When gall or blemish ignite
Disappointment's angry fire,
I see a young girl's impatience
With worlds too small for her desire.
Time's a tireless artist. He's left
His rifts, his scores, his creases,
Reminding us that true beauty
Only changes, never ceases.
And who will contemplate time's work
And in his lines see the girl still?
Who will feel her heart beneath lax
Flesh, fresh as a fledged dove's? I will.
[This message has been edited by Dom Mart (edited 09-19-99).]