Your Hair, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Your Hair

The magic of the rising morning sun
Which absorbs all the soft sweet smelling dew
As its bold brightness advises caution
While silently I’m in rapture of you
You stretch as if trying to grasp the sky
While the sun’s light flies through your golden hair
Such a sight I dare not to close an eye
To miss the radiance of one so fair
To run my fingers between every strand
To feel their delightful silky softness
To capture their luscious scent of dreamland
That will hold me in total breathlessness