her hair was spun
of gypsy moths
and weaved with ribbon
ruby red –
her eyes
a shade of cappucine
gave life to every
dream or dread

she spoke in words
not one could know
a language
only she could speak
a universe
where all was love –
would curse the sailor’s
longing – weak

her fragile hands
a raven’s breast
fluttered soft the beat
of care
a blossomed white
from passions rose –
as essence bloomed
a lover’s fare

she breathed
ten thousand years of light
and knew of things
most men could not
she harbored tears
for moments lost –
and spoke with kind
of love
forgot

what time was hers
no one could say
another birth from dying crossed
what kiss was made
to give away

what ruby red
a gypsy moth