We say we are men who love au naturale.

Yet, our hunt for curves and our lust for edges
pertain to your body, not to your morale.
Beauty lies too deep in your persona’s hedges.

Confidence exudes like a tart cherry.
We need more of your grace to sweeten your esteem.
Your strength and power are sharper than thorns,
while your dependence to us feels velvet rose.
Green-eyed men would say your mind’s not healthy,
for a woman and her smarts make a many men speak.
But most of all, your heart we cannot scorn.
We slit our own to shield you, like an abode.

Beautiful woman, you are a grapevine.
But vines hang to walls, such as men, who love wine.