Coquette

I’ve spun.
Sat through storms
and treachered all weathers,
but whirlwinds in my head?
Gusting gales have my sight all fuzzy;
but make no mistake, I’ve my sights set steady.
Though flustered is this courage mustered.
Head set sails to cloud high inclinations
and each indication set,
met perfectly by distinct anticipation.
But this damned preoccupation,
atmospheric hesitations.
She gives me butterflies
from here to the end of any sky.