My Dearest Dove

If I could Harken to thee, a sonnet, of loves most great desires, the mere utterance, would warm thine ears as the soft crackles of lusts fires The ambiance, of shadows dance across the Scottish tapestry, Muses, light footed, pirouetting my symphony, my love for thee Fairest is thy silken mane of the finest Irish Auburn, brilliant as a cool autumn day as the leaves of the maple turn The tower bells, they toll for thee as pale moon, illuminates the night hark, the far cry, my dearest dove of the owlet, so yearning flight The petals of the Royal Rose silken soft, compared to thy blushing skin, or the Emerald glow, of thine own eyes alit, passion, kindled from within Mine own heart, burns with ever fire that, which only thee, can conquer, Conquer thee not, my dearest dove for our love, forever, must endure Harken to me my dearest Dove sweet sonnets, from silken lips, for I know thou shall be to me as close as my finger tips.