Philogyny

She stands rooted; a wild tower
grazing the translucent shroud
at her hip.

Her color is purple, passionate
for the flower that roots itself
in the rock.

Her heart is that calm before
the storm - steady, brash.

Her taste is of suckles born of Summer,
her smell an erotic incense
to the wind.

Her home is a split amid
wayward wisps during
the golden tide -
             and she knows
             She outshines the stars,
             even to eyes of fire.