Cupid flew over my house last night,
That winged silhouette was you...
Your playful chuckle echoed in,
The dead of night.
Like a golden wind chime.
My rattling window was no match,
For that glorious sound.
Discreet you were not,
Overflown with passionate thoughts.
'Neath the glacial stars.
I crave a touch that is tender...
A whirlwind of emotions,
A slave at their beckon call.
You mischievous maker!
It just had to be you.
Who else owns a potent,
(c) Monica St Hillaire, 2021.