Bathsheba, It was true love

you fill me,
woman,
with maniacal
schemes and plots,
a rage of irrationality,
a cabal of good feelings,
yet,
reduced to a witless
rantipole
with a gawky smile,
and a half dozen road-
side wildflowers,

when you tickle
the eyes;
with golden sunbeams,
(tinted green);
chest heaves,
and heart cooks,
and melts, dripping
through lung and
and stomach and
whole body follows
downward in a
frothy
cascade of what
i once was,
and will never be
again,
and i swim in
my own puddle

just another happy fool
who saw you.