Martin A. Ramos - FIRST FLIGHT

Timid as a moth
my willing wings embrace
the hollow of her love;
dark on the sheet her face.

Inviolate sweep and pivot of wings,
careful the first ascent;
confidence in the gear unbent,
her perfume smell still clings.

Wake to her touch, a summit
which defies depth;
raised to new heights, a plummet
deeper than death.

In harbor, anchored like a lotus,
my ship of painted sail.
The lady bids adieu, farewell:
I hardly even notice.

Martin A. Ramos

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