She sits, knees down,
In practiced posture.
Grounded and calm.
Her curled fingers
Rest on her thighs.
Precise.
Impervious.
Immovable.
Her own.
In her smile,
A wisp on the wings
Slowly unfurls,
In a whirl
Of wise and winding
Mischief.
As honey'd tones
Roll from her maw,
I am humbled.
Hanging.
Enchanted.
Enthralled.
Lucky to be involved.
And in her every word
There is a piece of her
Unseen,
Unheard,
But no less present.
Pure effervescence.
On all terms,
In her way,
Effortless
And pleasant.
Purposeful, she;
Spinner of tales.