First Impressions Last

I'll never forget the day I met you.

I asked her eyes to be,

and they were.

Capturing men's hearts with the potency of wine.

I imagine her skin like silk.

Speech so soft and warm that it could be 

neither redundant nor deficient.

More elegant than zephyrs passing over flowers in the meadows.

The only meadow I think about now is the one I first laid eyes on her,

there among the willows and laughter.

The moon couldn't compare to her beautiful countenance.

Forever played in her eyes,

and sent shooting stars soaring through her thoughts when I kissed her.

They still lie brilliantly in those eyes.

Capturing men's hearts,

delighting their every sense.

She had become the most beautiful of colors,

like a rose whom's scarlet petals put to shame the fairest of cheeks.

Like the contact of sulfur and fire.

Let her eyes be,

and be blind,

to leaves upon my sleeve that are bespangled with the tears of clouds.

Yet,

that meadow is still haunts me with the charms of spring.

Zephyrs still languishing late night melodies.