Saturdays in May

And your figure is like a plume of smoke from a factory stack,
like a raging forest fire,
like a fresh cut gemstone set in white gold,
like the racing heartbeat of a hound on the hunt.
Like fresh tar’s scent,
like sight adjusting to the dark,
like the shoreline coming into view over the horizon,
like a perfectly formed sentence that rolls off the tongue,
like a crowded theater during a Saturday matinee.