When the curtain went up,

I was an audience of one

watching a wild flower,

naked as a bone,

even though she wore

a swishing skirt

of fine linen and Chantilly lace.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her

as she waltzed around the kitchen

whipping up a chocolate soufflé.

Whatever she touched

with the kiss of love

was a living tenderness.

Deaf, dumb and blind,

I would know her anywhere.

She needed to be loved.

I needed to love.