Where does this poem begin?
With a drop of lace, draped gracefully over a gallant wrist–
brushing an errant lock of golden curls over the delicate curve of an ear most tender pale.
And my mind swirls with such verse as would blush that lily petal red.
clasping that wrist,
dancing my fingertips upon the stage of that palm,
my parted lips hovering ever nearer that sweet blossom as a bee in search of nectar
to alight on that velvet bloom in suspiration softly.
And this enough a catalyst it seems,
to metamorphose that lily into a rose.
The transmutation thus complete, so ends this poem.
No more metaphors required.