She sits, knees down,
In practiced posture.

Grounded and calm.

Her curled fingers
Rest on her thighs.

Precise.
Impervious.
Immovable.
Her own.


In her smile,
A wisp on the wings
Slowly unfurls,
In a whirl
Of wise and winding

Mischief.


As honey'd tones
Roll from her maw,
I am humbled.
Hanging.
Enchanted.
Enthralled.

Lucky to be involved.


And in her every word
There is a piece of her
Unseen,
Unheard,
But no less present.

Pure effervescence.

On all terms,
In her way,
Effortless
And pleasant.


Purposeful, she;
Spinner of tales.