Stripped to nothing
more than the scrim of a dress,
she plays at being your muse.
A milky stretch of skin not
yet caressed by another's hands
frames what you have
to paint before the light forces
your eye up to meet her own.
After, in the hollows of her
face you limn so softly shadows
lead away from what once you dared.
© 2013 Maureen E. Doallas