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.