If I Were an Artist

 I remember as though it were yesterday,
for what man would not?

If I were an artist,
skilled in the use of brush and paint
I would have a perfect reproduction of her beauty.

But I do not.

If I were a gifted poet,
skilled in the use of metaphor and cliche,
I could describe her perfection with eloquence and exactitude.

But I cannot.

I must rely upon a memory,
corrupted by time.
Anemic in function.

Her eyes:
Obsidian orbs.
burning with passion.
Ablaze with the spirit and playfulness of a people who still cherish the simplicities of life.

Her lips:
The ambrosia of legend.
Framing perfect teeth.
Shimmering mother of pearl white as new fallen snow.

Her body:
My God, her body.
Languidly moving with a liquid grace and sensuousness seemingly inhuman in it's exertions.

Her skin:
Taut as that of a python.
The color of creamed coffee, it shone like burnished copper.

But ....

 attempting to describe the beauty of a goddess with the tongue of man is impossible.

And I shall not even try.