There was a letter in the mail,
I dreamed that night about
a woman named Tara McHale.
Although there were those lips that pout,
it was the presence of  a breeze
made up of warmth and intellect,
she stopped for just a minute, just to tease
yet it was futile and I was not able to detect
more than the pheromones of something great,
of youth and fresh  aroma, passing through,
of silent whispers knitting silk for a debate
she left behind for me her cinderella shoe.