On face and hands and neck and head,
Are silk, and smooth, and not ignored.
Aching muscles made de-sored.
A line of red, like mapped trails,
Upon a canvas (but not a canvas of sails),
Leads to treasures, to the lot,
Revealing that x-marks-the-spot.
This is a series of poems I am writing for my wife. I will write a new one each day until she has had her fill of poems, or until my fingers fall off. ♥
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