I worship wings that open wide,
soft angel feathers, flushed with pride—
warm velvet curves in amber glow,
the kind that teach the mouth to slow.

They part like petals after rain,
all hush and silk and sweet refrain;
a bloom so rich, so softly spun,
it tastes of dusk and summer sun.

My tongue, a pilgrim, learns the grace
of tender warmth and yielding space;
and in that hush, all breath, all art,
those velvet wings undo the heart.