It started when I asked her what she desired
She told me she wanted to understand why the world has not loved her back yet
So I wrote her a map of everything she is:

Her eyes sing like sparrows on a Sunday morning
Tongue so soft her words asked to be returned once spoken
There is a serenade in her hands each time she touches a pen and
A lullaby in her fingertips

Plush red lipsticks do not know who she is
Beauty has not met anyone like her
Long stalks of wild grass are playgrounds for her summertime sandals and
Singing songs that hadn’t been loved in 30 something years
Summer dresses with last year’s flip flops forming an eloquence around her

She speaks with a purpose and it is to make you listen
Only bards and poets know what to call her
Words do not speak to who she is

200 year old Willow trees bow to her like a queen who has ruled with grace
She strolls slowly and steadily to places which indefinitely await her
She is a statue already built and a book already written
Complete

Eyes follow her figure like a fire burns through a forest-
Steadfast, sudden and swift
unable to comprehend the complete creation of all that she is

Many hearts pulsate with a plethora of pronunciations and proclamations of love,
Her name runs through your veins like secrets that get buried in cemetaries
You will die before you can forget her