Women have eyes like this
before they’re old.
Bright with a shimmer in them.
Like apples, fruity and sweet.
Everything smells good
when summer is going.
Like juice spilled over.
Romance on the make.
A last hurrah
with everything hanging over,
hanging out with style.
When a woman is a girl again.
Ripe, with the wisdom
of the world inside her.
They are never more beautiful
than now.
Conflagration with roses
blushing on the cheeks.
Later in boxes hidden in a corner,
rafters sounding of the past,
a woman still beautiful at heart,
reads the coming,
that came after,
summer at the end.