when I found her, I had no poem.
 
her eyes held questions & inquisitions,
theories & assumptions  -
her eyes held epiphanies.
but not stars. there were no stars in her eyes.
 
into her ear, I chanted a sad song,
which did not alter her countenance.
the melody of the song,
and the message of the song,
drifted tepidly down her cheeks.
but not like tears. not at all like tears.
 
when she showed me her heart, there were
love-notes clinging, from distant lovers,
long gone away, the words not faded
but clear, so dear did she hold them.
not of feathers nor flowers, as penned
by a minstrel or bard. not at all rococo.
 
the robe she wore was a composition,
lexicon of a language unknown to me,
yet somehow I understood, though
bewildered that it lacked gatherings
of ruby & sapphire, amethyst & peridot  -
nor even golden brocade.
 
she was not a goddess, nor a witch.
she was not Galatea, nor Medusa.
not an apparition, nor a lachrymose dream.
she was herself  - 
because it was all she needed to be.
 
and when I found her, I did not need a poem…
 
she was the poem.