How could I possibly describe my favorite things about
her?
How could I possibly enumerate the things I
love?
How could I possibly question what her heart chooses to know, as
I?
For there are an innumerable amount of things she
does, says, is
that I adore more than all of the positive words in the
English language could possibly articulate.
And how could I dismiss it as unworthy of trying?
I couldn't.
Not in all of the Godly or ungodly years of this universe
or the next,
could I.
She is like a mirage, but not.
For the promise of water is sweet, but
people know of the illusion therefore do not
try.
But I have tried my hand and come away
with much more
than sand.
I have come away with the delicate soul
of pure water.
So I try.
To describe the shape,
the strength, the vitality,
the life-bearing qualities
of water:
For when she ties her bag of tea to
the cup,
I see.
That she is tied and ties because she is
free.
Watch her.
Watch how she flutters and stutters
and flies,
and one would do well to surmise
that her nature is also that of a
butterfly.
Why?
For she makes it possible for the Spring to come,
the flowers to bloom,
and the lovers to swoon.
For when she comes across something that causes
her to render an expression across her visage,
(and there are so many expressions! Indescribable,
unpredictable, yet when they come, no other expression
would have been sensical.)
I see.
That she wears her heart in her expressions.
As true (pure) as one (water) could ever
be.
And she knows it (even if she does not),
"*****!"
She'll exclaim, firing her guns,
the baddest ******* this side of the
Mississippi.
For when she is particular and planning
in tastes and in life, such as to take the time
to scrape a biscuit of pepper gravy for
later use, or
to have such disdain for provolone and corn,
(What happens if I melt the cheese over the corn?)
I see.
That no detail is beyond her scrutiny,
about herself and about the world,
she sees all,
is in all,
as is water.
Such a life she has led that
she cannot be afforded
mistakes, oversights.
For when she settles upon crossing a road
in which is meant to be crossed and is crossed by
white, and steps carefully, on-her-toes, quickly
across (only) the white,
I see.
That child-like gleam pass through her eyes
shining as bright a white as the Winter sky
as the sun refracts off the clouds.
Never has she given up (and never will she)
that child inside,
for she can't,
and shouldn't.
To do so would surely mean...
It matters not.
Such child-like wonder to
wander is a must.
Without child,
all of us are naught.
For when she lies about, let's me memorize every
inch, examine every detail, and there are three specific
(right side of chin, below right breast, under left shoulder)
marks of beauty.
I see.
That there is captivating charm within
what could be seen
(and who should see such should be petty and foolish, indeed!)
as imperfection.
That it is the minute marks that define
her as none other could ever be
before, or after, or
ever.
For when she reads and loves the freedom that
poetry (that of which I someday hope to write) often gives
and calls it miraculous and enchanting,
I see.
That her appreciation of others' appreciation,
which is quite a marvelous thing to perceive,
gives her the power to nurture
the nature
within herself and others
with such love to
grow flowers and trees and life into an otherwise
desolate wasteland, and to
turn the most arduous challenge
to that of which is
as effortless
as water.
For when she smiles, and her eyes squint as if the
happiness is too bright, and her nose wrinkles as if the
smell of laughter is too much to bear,
I see.
That despite all the hardship, all the pain,
all the struggle,
that she is stronger than I have yet to
discover.
That the strength to smile in the face of
the terrible truth that is this
world,
is a feat of unparalleled proportions,
and will guide her to many places
far and in between because
she is too strong to quit.
And finally:
For when she opens herself in a way that one pin-*****
would be fatal, and exposes to me the rough, lonely, responsible, insecure
kid that she was (and may still be),
I see.
That she has been reduced to nothing
far more than she has deserved (not that she ever deserved it!),
and she has taken it as well as one could,
not attempting to rebuild herself from
the shards,
but instead arranging them
to form something more glorious
than before.
That free and fair girl,
which has been so trodden upon,
so wronged, so hurt as to hurt as
long as there is existence,
(and when I trespass her too, I become so deeply ashamed
that there is little I can do)
has become the most beautifully broken person
I have ever had the honor to know.
For when she simply is,
I see.
That which has been broken may be made
more beautiful than
that which has not.