Can I, can't I?

Sun shining outside my window. Inside my window.
Outside my head. Inside her head.

A dream of flaxen curls on my pillow.
So sheer, so soft, it startles
and scares with its sweetness.

Lightly caressing the still white linen,
they play hide and seek with the errant sunlight
Now pale, now sparkling brighter
than the stars in my eyes.

A fresh wind blows them tantalisingly awry,
and I notice many many more
beneath those first
fulsome fragrant folds.

Waves like wanton waifs
Washing over a weary world of wanderers-
wayward, weary, wishing, wanting, waiting...

If curls could shake the world-
this is it, this is it.

No fire, no smoke, no ashes to stoke.

And yet, why should it take a million years
before I can let my fingertips
dance to their maddeningly mellow tune?

Shhhh...tread gently.

You know she'll never wake
but be careful,

for you just may.