This woman is a song
her voice plays a gentle sound
with no more a pleasant syllable
to ever pass me.
This woman is a poem
her movements a graceful meter
with such soothing articulations
I read her thin lines out loud.
This woman is a flower
her passions blooming
with effortless substance
and quiet grace.
Though she won’t know
my words are for her,
I whistle her tune
I recite her lines
I cherish her petals…
and oh when I see her,
how I smile
at all this woman is to me
yes this woman,
she is a poem.
I hope she knows.