You gaze,
At her beauty,
Its as if shes sprouted,
From a Matisse painting,

Otherworldly,
And down to earth,

Her mirth,
seems lovely,
Strange,
And refreshing,
To your weary soul,

Its always her hair,
That changes,
With the evening clouds,

Is she in another dress,
That caresses her body,
Serenades the lillies,
Of her hips,
Kisses her thighs,
With a river of sighs,

Its all impressionistic,
And surreal,
That Matisse beauty
Reynaldo Casison