An age ago, I in youth, clutter my future mistress met. Hid she well, uncouth, from parental regret. Thence in studio, on my own, a blossom she put forth. With young love and petals down, she wrapped in love my girth. Now with salted hair I see, conjoined in larger space, a mirror reflects gently, my heart’s mistress’ true face.
Afterword
With inspirational thanks to Camille Dawnier, and her essay
