your hair is chestnut brown
your feet,    soft
pointed upon the other
oblivious to the other sixteen pairs
sat   flat upon the ground.

your eyes are wide
through habit of being surprised,
or showing an interest,    where
sixteen foreheads  crease and look down.

your pen dances  across the ruled lines of your page.
though time passes  in this taxing classroom
you don’t age.

  
dumb words
try jealously to tie down that which
extends beyond their square brackets.
when communication is as  broken  as it has ever been,
how can I hope to express to you what I  see?

so I know that these words are in vain.
I know that I have failed
to frame your fire in a portrait
that honestly reflects you.
and so I apologise,  for this ode aborted
but, anything else  would be untrue.