She was a poet yet unaware
of her gift so very rare.
Her work marveled the depths
of awe and stole the breaths
of all who read her wordless art.
Oh, did I not say, of her and her wordless way!?
Its true you see,
her work is she...
Not words or speech or things felt
just her smile, for all hearts to melt.
You don't believe my silly rant
on poetry so extravagant.
I wouldn't lie, you see
I've seen her truth it set me free
with marks of her own felicity.
This was her rhyme and verse,
poetry not practiced nor rehearsed
before its reading and long held glance
hearts beating... waiting... on extravagance.
In that simple poetic smile
miles met endless mile
just to see her do it again
I'd travel far and thats no sin.
In fact, its heaven-pure
God's gift for sorrow cure.
I know this joy it plants,
a harvest of extravagance.
Its all poetry should be,
depth made into beauty.
When sincere and smile real
depth in joyous ethereal.
When her smile seems so forced
depth in trial running its course.
When all in smile remains untold
depth in mysteries to hold.
When smile is just beauty profound
depth in our own sighing sound.
I could talk all day,
every language and way,
and still be left humbled, you see
from her effortless extravagant poetry.