Poetry floats from their mouth

like dragon smoke in December.

Happiness relaxes on their cheeks

like a glittered recliner and

the sound of their laugh gets caught in my hair.

 

Their eyes are the glimpses of sky between the clouds,

the trees that dare to grow on the mountaintop,

the earthen caves waiting undiscovered behind the waterfalls.

 

Energy spills around them like their rainfall skirts

and shoots out of their teeth when they smile.

Their face is a freckled galaxy

that locks away the truth of the universe.

They hold the key in the palm of their hand,

wrapped in the fingers that created the sweet harmony of time.

 

They glow with a warm lavender light

like a meadow radiates technicolor blooms

and their hair blossoms from the same garden

that gave birth to emotion

and sprouted an emotion of thought.

 

They are fierce, a warrior

battling the thunderstorm clouds

and they are a butterscotch candy

dipped in chocolate and coated in sprinkles.

 

They are everyone’s Giving Tree,

even when their leaves desert them

and taller trees refuse to share their sun.

They are the embodiment of art:

a rainbow poem, a crystal mural, and a perfumed symphony

rolled into dough and sculpted

into vanilla scented rolls of film.

 

They are the moon, friends with the stars,

contentedly suspended above the world,

yet they are grounded,

floating with the grass between their toes.

 

I long to be their grass, their shoes, their pen,

to aid them in the Thundercloud War;

I long for their freckled face beside mine

and for the key to press between our palms;

And I long to be the poetry that dances through their lips,

painting emotion in color and carving with thought,

until the world is coated in a too-brief infinity.