Her eyes are of the strangest shade of brown;
She looked directly at me, but rarely did enter,
Except when my glance was gazing down.
She talked of nature, yet she seemed to center
Around the ethereal, the fresh, the unknown.
This poet she now knows distinctly does disown
The belief that women possess a certain power
That men do not have, to an equal degree,
At morn, at noon, or in the twilit,
starry-studded hour.
For both are equal, here and in eternity.
Her beauty has been met with praise
Since her youth, her schooling days;
But her spirit, cloaked, in a hidden haze,
Is known in its depths to me and me alone.
She passes by the manor house, beneath the linden
trees,
Where the ivy marries emeralds with stone,
In Californian summers, like an angel in a veil,
Yet she weeps inside beneath the moon, white,
full and pale,
As her dark, black mane perfumes with love the
breeze.
~ John Lars Zwerenz
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