An hour, a beautiful hour. 

Time has no quantity, only quality, 

with her. 

 

We fall into these cushions of the couch, 

sinking into serenity.

Heat briskly beats, though we are too far. 

It lingers towards our legs. 

Such a feel: warmth, how honest it is.

Hands swiftly brush, 

both dry as wood.  

 

The air fills with powdery ash 

as the log cabin caves within itself. 

I begin to yawn, and the smoke seeps 

within my open mouth.

I yearn for water, wishing 

to wash such flavors away.

 

The overshadowing scent of logs burning, 

I relocate into memory, 

the reminiscence of similar scenes. 

Her perfume pulls me back into the present, 

reminding me of her essence; 

she deserves my attention.

 

For an hour, I confuse 

flavor with fragrance, 

and fragrance with flavor. 

These senses conjoin 

for the night, to accompany 

a couplet.  

 

First, the crickets chanting, 

then, the wind whistling; 

Mother Nature’s lullaby 

provides us desire for slumber.

The chimes call, asking to be heard, 

we lend them our ears while heads rest.

As I listen, air expands her chest, 

then dispels with such grace.

 

With glass lens reflecting flame, 

I turn my head. 

She is smiling. 

What benevolence, 

what elegance, 

appears at my very eye!

Moonlight glimmering, 

enhancing the romantic scene. 

 

To call this tranquility with 

the one I adore; 

I would have it no other way!