It is
a single blood-red rose,
Lounging in a field
of Sunday morning daisies.

It is
a venerable novel,
ripe with life and adventure.
Love splattered across the pages.
The binding,
begging and writhing to free the secrets
coddled between the lines.

It is
how your mother takes her coffee.
A little cream,
no sugar,
and the promise of
9 AM jitters.

It is
Expecting a hurricane,
only, having to recover
from a day in the sunlight.
  
It is
a tiny footprint in the sand,
a greasy fingerprint on a doorknob,
the intricacies of a fragile snowflake.

But above all,

It is
You.