Spring brings the face to mind, eyes green as buds,
Skin clear as air annihilating space,
The conflagration that’s her hair the blood’s
Intoxication with that perfect face.
Summer suggests her manner, bright and warm,
The rose that lifts the room, that careless air,
Those folded hands, the action giving form
To something hidden but felt everywhere.
Autumn speaks with her voice, the gold that clings
In farewell to the trees, the rich, sweet plum
That stores the summer sun, the bird that sings
As doors are shut of warmer days to come.
Winter is a bare and barren time of year.
It sums her up the best: she isn’t here.
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No poet is a poet until he writes a sonnet to his ideal woman. I don’t know any ideal women and any who come close would be more embarrassed than flattered by my efforts if I tried. So I have turned to that great castle of unapproachable beauty, the cinema.
The shaved poet 