A poem
The caress of the wind, as it tickles the leaves
lingers across the coldness of her face,
while I can taste the salt upon the keen air,
and still black shadows curve and blend.
Soft night wraps around, a velvet cloak,
embracing oiled balm to weary souls.
But I press on, her coldness to explore,
and still, the welcome ruby wine flows down.
White gems are faded against the deepest mantle,
like yesterdays, but yesterday is dead.
So we drain the glass and put the stars to bed,
and still the rain descends at hurried pace.