What You Are To Me
You are my everything, like sunny days,
budding apple trees, the gates to heaven.
Add the warmth of the sun's eternal rays;
past a perfect ten, you're an eleven.
A temperate breeze, neither hot nor cold,
you're an abstract painting consigned on lease.
And infinitely more precious than gold,
you're the completion of a masterpiece.
You're like the smell of a freshly mowed lawn;
or shade, offering comfort from the sun.
The mist on a mountain top greeting dawn,
you're the laugher of a child having fun.
Like a cool shower in the heat of June,
you're a butterfly, free of her cocoon.
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