The stranger Eros comes,
alighting like a black crow on the branch
amid the early morning mist.
His eyes are blue as the first violets of spring,
his hair golden-brown as a jar of honey on the shrine of the nymphs,
his lips soft as satin sheets on bare flesh,
and I know that his kiss would be tart as a cherry
just before it reaches ripeness.
The others standing there
(too engrossed in their recriminations)
do not see him, but I do.
And he smiles at me,
a sad and longing smile,
before disappearing once more.
The couple clasp hands and cross the street,
their worthless argument forgot.