Spring made me want to write you a poem
that tries to suggest you’re pretty like a flower. 
But I can’t compare you to their beauty
and I won’t exhaust my precious hours 
picking posies of poor imitation.

Their gentle, little, wide-open petals 
are simply coy, sluttish, snaring submissions;  
eager ploys easily overpowered 
by my corrosive mind’s recollection
of your gleaming heart and polished mettles.