Something old, Something new, something borrowed, something blue

PUZZLE PEACES
(For Miss Prissy)

When you toss the dark
mystery of your hair,
why are the almonds of your eyes
suddenly so sienna?
How do your lips
always seem to glisten,
ripe as a rain
kissed apple?
My hands may have trekked
from Australia to Zaire,
(although not yet Cabo Verde.)
Yet the topography
between the soft shore
of your forehead
and the smooth beach of your feet
leaves them befuzzled,
grasping at perfumed air.
They may have kayaked currents
on the Silver River,
rambled up the mythic rocks
of Mt. Rainier,
or even delved the subtext
of the Mediterranean Sea,
but encountering you
they lack any compass,
nautical chart or North Star.
Let me not notice
how the purple
of your pout
may harbor more treasure
than any ocean’s sunken chests
or these hands
might never cease
their hunger
to wander down
the coiled conundrum of your spine
and up the twin exclamation points
of your thighs,
eternally seeking to solve
each brown skinned riddle
the country of your body contains.

After Pablo Neruda