Her sweet breath fell warm and soft
like a gentle prairie breeze
wafting the scent of wild rose,
delicate, but mostly wild.
Her mane, red and dangerous,
sometimes concealed then revealed
an emotional rainbow.
Her full lips would pout or smile
like a sudden summer storm —
thunder, lightning then sunshine,
Temperament like a mustang,
skittish, demanding patience,
or she would bolt for the wild.
Gentleness would subdue her.
For a while she could be held,
raging passion directed,
hunger could be satisfied
briefly, then she would be gone.
I would not hope to contain
or to harness the wildness.
For me she will always be
my sweet, delicate, wild rose.
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