How would I know it was her if she tried to hide in disguise?

As clever as she may think herself to be,
With a mustache as thick as a Redwood Tree,
I would hardly need wits to peg her identity,
Because I have learned a few truths that require her to be,
And they are as follows:

She is a herald,
Of inspiration and joy,
Moments merely mundane made miraculous by her being,
Make me write and smile.

She, a vision, floats again into mine,
Simultaneously sitting beside me she turns every jagged edge in the world into soft colorful things with all the warmth of a sparkling room filled full of familiar faces and old piano songs,
A girl whose eyes talk more than her lips and say things like, not so fast,
So just try and say that to me.

Thinking back now,
I have never seen her walk,
She seems to glide, to float, to hover, like she does in my mind,

And I would consider myself a fool,
A green, spontaneous, pup of pitiful perceptions,
A flight of short stairs without poignant reflections,
If not for the wild burning inside,
Caused by my dredging artist bathed in light,


I lose my heart from time to time because she gently leaves it for me to find at the bottom of the ocean,
A place where distance has not yet been conquered so nearness is still cherished,

In these depths I often see cankerous beasts swimming slowly among me,
Orbiting lazily like planets in space,
But I do not writhe in the deep,

And the beasts swim away, always onward to other prey,
So in the dwelling that I feared, I now want to stay,
Until I remember not to leave myself in such a dark place,
Without the presence of my perched herald there to say,
That even though the push and pull of the tides above are much to bear every day,

There is still the moon to calm the Seas,
And to light the thoughts of the men who will dream,
Of her.