Three dancers, beautiful.

One, wearing green, her eyes a deep chestnut. Regarding them causes me to fall into a state of inebriation, in which time is a discarded napkin, detritus, substance I no longer consider relevant. She is calm, observing me as I observe her, exposing her fruit-bearing genitalia to me as they are open to the world.

A second, holding me in her gaze, cooked in bright orange. When the light changes, however, new tones present themselves, unabashedly: hints of peach and the kind of pink you would only ever see at dawn peek out from her cloak of radiant warmth. This, in a frigid environment.

She shimmies left, then right, then left again in a repeating pattern. Something more than natural guides her movement, yet, she appears to be at once completely governed by the natural.

The last is bare; she has no further need for the clothing which has announced her likeness for the duration of this dance. She stirs irregularly if at all — she is evidently finished with our dance, awaiting the beginning of the next sonnet. Having given all she can, she now lingers in the twilight of our mutual engagement, patiently beckoning me come see her again, when life begins anew.