From my plain, freckled hands
Can beauty spring in its entirety?
Perhaps not, and then again, maybe…
The flight of birds is slower than that of fancy
Dreams, springing through minds like deer
swimming through thoughts like fish in a stream
are naught to be compared with the eloquence of
you, who walks with the grace of a buck and the temper
of a mad stallion who has never known a bit and spurs
throwing off all hopeful suitors like the wild horse
would throw those who try to ride it.
Yet, there is always that one who persists
the near-wild hunter crouched silently, waiting for her prey
to draw near, unwittingly, quietly as a falling feather
the wild buck hears the shot, and darts away
but falls to one's persistence.
She has won her prize.