Image by Jose P Isern Comas via FlickrLast night on flight 4667 from Salt Lake City, where the Air Gods put her for 30 minutes to taunt the old Mormons with the fact that a harem of dozen is nothing compared to her, a collection of crumbs after the cake is gone.
When she came through security and I saw her as beautiful as a girl (or as beautiful as a girl should have the good fortune to be, having been burnished by time), naturally Wordsworth came to mind as I strained to capture the moment. (My heart leapt up, you know?)
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive.
It was nine at night and not dawn, but you get the idea. You can be too literal. Love is not literal, not the kind that finishes the marathon.