She Speaks Poem by Christian Thomas Scott

First came dancing, whirling, prancing,

Driven by the years advancing.

A brimming pot of gold elation,

Thrilling, caught, a soft sensation

A tugging, pulling, observation,

Lifted up, and falling down.

She speaks as one who, contrite, begs the courtesy of the wind,

Falling on his knees he cries out, ashamed at his ferocity.

Would not the trees also bend their leaves and kiss her brow?

For like the moon it shines with blessing.

It seems to me as though, lithe and quick, she falls in and out of shadow.

With a breath she has slipped the conscious mind,

The solemn night is no place for carelessness.

Instinct now prevails, carrying calm and quiet footsteps

Over tendrils of the ground.

Her lamplight shines on hardwood oak that, with tender care,

Has rendered smooth a master's craft.

You may catch the scent, the smell,

The voluminous presence of falling rain or soft garden flowers,

Or perhaps it will intersperse with the yellowed pages of

A thousand written words, laid out in order by their maker.

What mysteries do they tell?

Come closer and you will find those ink-stained hands,

Shorn by thorns and thistles: the sacrifice of tilled soil.

If ye can come close enough to see those eyes,

An ocean filled with fire,

Ye will notice how, amidst the coffee stains and splatters of paint,

There is a gentle breeze.

So who can scoop up a fern and call it by its name,

Savoring the taste of its rich and exquisite aesthetic?

Is it her? The dancer, the dreamer, a scribe of the inconsistencies of beauty?

Give the moon your company and she will smile upon you,

The stars and they will kiss with flickering light.

So when she whispers of her dreams,

Of the pale, unearthly things,

That separates us from eternity.

Men quake and women shiver, riven by the piercing of their hearts.

Barefoot, brisk, and unabashed.

The howling in the night, a trembling oath, unbroken stone.

Words that flow like silk, like smooth and simple silk.

Her eloquence resounds in song, as they repeat back the mysteries

Of her charm.

It is not without trepidation that the ocean plays around her feet,

Or the forest casts its shade upon her face.

The moss sighs, for her feet glide across the soft and silent patches

With barely a waking glance.

Whether be it butter churned, berries picked, or blossoms grown,

Her countenance causes men to fall,

Blessed by her bountiful, lyrical care.

As though the artist, smiling through his brushes and his oil,

Sat in the birches' branches, feeling the sun drop like a gourd.

A simple silver spoon, concavity of reflection,

Mirrored and refracted, transfixed by color, mesmerized by shadow.

Love her, they cry, for they have not the voice

To announce their praise.

Let me tell you of the night,

The day, the hours spent within her presence.

A meadow may possess the flowers of youth,

The beauty, the simplicity… that much is clear.

Yet they long to be picked, long to adorn her hair.

Those blossoms that find themselves woven in her braid,

Cherish their fate, know their place is right and good.

Yet none are as joyful as that crimson rose,

Pinned to her breast to satisfy unrest,

the pleasure of the image she creates.

Twirling in and out of life as they know it,

She appears, breathless, surprised at nothing,

Yet uttering a gasp at her own brevity.

The river winds his way down to her,

Longing to carry her in his slumbering, shivering arms.

Imagine, if you will,

Dream, Oh stranger, of her fair and fortunate smile.

She, clad in naught but simple garb, wears the beauty of a silent queen.

The strength of her hands, the words they have written, the pictures painted…

They praise her, claim her, as their own.

In the moonlight may you find her, the gardens at sunrise,

A visitor in the forest, an artist in the glade,

may she forever be.