You ask,
As they ask,
Time and again,
Who is she,
The woman
For whom
I write
My love poems?
Is she tawny?
Is she blonde?
Is she tall?
Or short?
Does she have
Blue eyes?
Or black?
Or brown?
Is she from
The west,
Or the east?
You ask,
As they ask,
Time and again,
Who is she,
My love?
Is she
An angel
In my mind?
Or real
Like me?
You ask,
As they do,
Everyday.
Though I wish
You knew
Who she is.
If you just
Look into
My heart,
You will see
Yourself:
Your face,
Your eyes,
Your lips,
As if
You look
Into a mirror.
You will know
That the woman
For whom
I write
My love poems
Is no one
Other than
You yourself :
My poem,
My flower,
And the love
That fills
My life
With delight,
With rapture,
And pride.