She is Golden

A short poem.

 

She's the halo of messy hair that frames her dimpled face when you first spot in Summer.

She's the delicious dry bubbles you both suck from the neck of the bottle.

She's the glitter, the glamour, the enigmatic lusty mystery masquerade ball.

She's the setting sun, weary but ever-blinding in that pinnacle late electric evening.

She's the crisp dry leaves blown flat against your bedroom window, cooling the Earth.

She's the coming amber mornings, the filtered rays of light, laughter, the explosions and the last firework.

She is the coming years: A rainbow of years, finished neatly in a golden bow.