the glory of the morning, to lay flowers across her arms
my fingers absentmindedly drumming a soft melody on her shoulder
the timing correlates with the swooning beat of my mortal heart,
the one which i gifted to her long ago
she has mine, and in turn i am lucky enough to have hers
she is mine, she is lovely, how i love her
i rise to stand and observe my work
azaleas trace the side of her frame
reaching once again to the wicker basket, i carefully surround her face with cosmos
weaving gardenias and jasmine through the tourmaline umber of her hair
resisting the urge to comb my hand through, lest i disturb her rest
a bolt of raw affection surges through me;
lowering myself onto my knees, i press a kiss to her hand
she is lovely, how i love her
a yellow daffodil is soon tucked behind her left ear,
with a pink one mirroring behind her right
the enamored sigh that escapes me is one the world has heard thousands of times,
but this wont be the last instance in which it occurs
interlocking her hand in mine, i place seven violets above her heart
her eyes flutter open, content but curious, and i bring my lips to hers
how i love her
oh, how i love her so