I would like to write a poem for you
but as I search, and lose my bearing
amidst metaphor and simile
it occurs to me
that I am no poet
and you are not a poem
Just a young woman,
your life only beginning
to curl itself open
with yellow-green eyes and black glasses and
a flat footed gait.
You are a young woman, a poet
and see the world as such:
Fragmentary,
full of breathtaking grace.
Matched only by its melancholy
(in which you see much grace)
and you carry within your frail ribs
(all our frail ribs)
an appropriate sense of wonder,
and curiosity

I see you in my nights.
You are a gift of a breeze when the air grows stultifying and
thick.
You, too, pass quickly,
A brief fluttering of covers one night
leaving a still wake
I hope that you will not yourself grow quiet
and for someone else (perhaps a poet)
will stir at least one more night