The Brassy Girl

She was young, though not as young as she'd like you to think.
But younger than the old gasbags that snickered at her as she
Strutted by with boldly undulating curves and
Wildly changing moods and smiles so flashy
They could only be described as gaudily so.

Alluring still, despite a few wrinkles, cracks and sags
From the rumbles of the shaky ground beneath her
Towering, strappy heels, from the slap of the winds that
Always seemed to be swirling around her, and mostly,
From the strain of keeping up her saucy reputation.

Years could pass behind her, but she was still that brassy girl.
Nobody had such an audacious way of being so changeable.
One moment cold as an igloo, then the next perky as a crocus.
Towers and trees fell into a belching gulf of rended earth,
But the next morning she rose up, as usual, and sang an aria.

On the tips of her eyelashes, I could dance until sunrise.
Tracing her lush lips, I could taste espresso and sugared rolls.
On the outline of her hips, I could tumble downward,
Until I reached the edge of the sea, the end of the earth,
And then ride back up again with bells clanging.

At her side, I dreamed, my elbows right on the bar,
Sipping slivovitz with a blossom of plum flesh,
My ass barely able to stay on the barstool,
With all the wolves leaning in for a bite
Of her pink neck and drowsy eyes.

As she watched, I tasted, every steaming bite
Rolling by in a mad circus of flavors and smells,
And walked for miles beneath ancient trees,
Until my muscles screamed from her steep hills,
My mind whirring from her flirty misdirection.

As she whispered, I yearned, dizzy from the
Precipitous angle of the drop, spoiled rotten,
For every glass was full, ever bar a rooftop
With a breathtaking view, every lane lined
By flowers impossibly, always, in bloom.

She is still a brassy girl, and I love her.
In her arms, I am reminded of the beauty
That I had ignored for practical quests,
Beauty that is priceless, ageless, timeless,
And, more than ever, what I need.