The first snow
When it just starts to stick to the ground
Around nine o clock,
And the snow dances in the streetlights.
And the first thing you think of when you wake up
Is getting to walk in it's beauty.
That's her smile.
But she doesn't think it's beautiful.

The first time a hug meant something.
You feel their arms,
Their shoulders,
Their warmth,
The tickle of their breath on the bottom of the left side of your neck,
And the last moment when they tighten around you
Into a solid, comforting fortress before they pull away.
That's the air she exhales.
But she doesn't think it's beautiful.

The most devastating thunder storm.
When the rain is sad,
And not peaceful or light hearted,
And the echo of the cracks of thunder sting your ears.
And the lightening stops getting interesting,
The lightening looks worried.
It looks like suicidal tendencies.
That's what it's like to see her cry.
But she doesn't think it's beautiful.

Battle fields.
Soiled with distraught courage,
Limp hopes,
And dying bravery.
Yet somehow holding the promise of a victory
That will effect hundreds of nations.
Those are her scars.
Yet she doesn't think it's beautiful.

The most perfect day on the beach.
Sandwiches without the sand,
Waves that kiss your toes,
Sun that blankets you with the feeling of security,
And a sunset so perfect
That you wonder if it's real,
Or just a calender's picture for the month of August.
That's her.
But she doesn't think she's beautiful.