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I often think
if some one would ask me to define her,
what would I tell them?

Northing short,
for there is a certain quality
that beckons me to believe that she is a lady,
and a lady of great depth.

Perhaps it is her enduring way of seating herself?
Her bum perched on the cleft of the chair
and her whole torso suspended above the chair
like an arch holding up a mighty aquifer
or an important oaken beam in a grand cathedral.
Her shoulders poised exactly so
her attentive gaze hangs effortlessly above her body.

Perhaps it's her face?
A countenance
like never I have before encountered.
At first glasnce
it is the texture of a grand wheat field,
unmoving under the noon-day sun.
Then before my eyes her ears pierce the chaos
her majestic fields shift and shimmer of inner emotions at what she has observed.

I must,
however,
admit that at first
this was not a phenomenon I was at all aware of.
Her smooth inner personalness attracted my conjecture at all times
an inner beauty of hers showed me the anticipation of a lovers first kiss
in waiting for her smile to break
so my soul could calm in the shadow of her happiness.

Then I watched
as she listened
to the others words.
Seemingly
letting those words they spoke
fall softly as snow upon her ears,
melting in the warmth of her mind,
finally to pool into images on her plains of imagination.
Her gaze is often put to the floor,
her mind working effortlessly to coagulate her environment.

Looking at the surfaces about this room
as if it were a great tarn of wonders.
Only to have her face and eyes rise
to meet the author's words,
slowly;
as the coming of dawn,
rising
shimmering across the vast curving horizons of infinte time,
alighting the shy with frozen fires
and passionate wisps of pinks and purple hues
greeted in song by it's avain guardians
until finally,
like the sun,
becomes a bright warmth across her soft thin lips.
It is that happiness
engulfed in the image of the author's words,
like a majestic matron
accepting the scepter of soft happiness in fantasy lands.

It is that happiness playing across her face,
as if the author
were sharing precious story or jest with her alone.
A joke
only she knows the punch-line too,
a lite-hearted banter
with all the seriousness of tulip petals and spring daisies.

I think now this,
perhaps,
enough about her,
or at the least
about how she causes my mindfulness of focus upon her.