The Birth

When a petal of prose
And poetry of rose,
were born,

It wasn't a dusk,
but a pale pleasure
had turned pink, my dawn.

The caterpillar ate those leaves,
Cocooned in its silk,
to weave a silent yarn.

Your elbow, my pillow,
your eyes, my book,
was almost in your arms,

The words spawn,
the peach ink, my paper heart,
a drop of verb, a love of a forlorn form.