A LOVER’S WARMTH IS

So, my curious rose of love’s longing hopes,
thou muse, doth thou, upon my hows of warming thee?

Thy room bears the chill of winter winds,
steam radiators no more than arrows against guns,
hand-knit sweaters and woolen shawls,
not quite good enough,
worn pajamas and feather comforters space limiting?

Shall I incarnate as the life-animating sun,
my heart ablaze with flames of passion’s sparks?

Shall I weave of my essence true and erotic,
a luxurious mantle of rainbow, woolen silkiness,
layering it over thy wanton nakedness,
so the cold night’s humors are held at bay?

Shall I show myself as Krishna to Arjuna,
in the fullness of Holy Love and Eternal Wisdom,
rays of burning brightness fondling thy erogeney,
my Ankhen hands lighting fires where e’er I touch?

Or perhaps, even simpler, only thy lover’s lusty embrace,
locked timelessly together in passionate deep kisses,
moving to complement hot lance penetrations?

Dear love, such are only some of my hows.