Sep 14

january 28th 2004

her hands are like tree branches. 
“piano hands” — 
she calls them. 
i find myself wishing, 
i too had them.
her hair flows down her neck,
then swoops like a wave, resting in 
the dips of her shoulder blades. 
her eyes aren’t dark,
but don’t shine either. 
not like a fairytale maiden. 
they hold something unknown,
something uncharted. 
like she knows when
the world will end. 
Her lips are rosey red and 
perched in a little smile,
tugged to the left. 
her laugh is summer and 
I am june. 
But this is not a love poem.
Not one meant to serenade her,
because i await—
just as anxiously as she does,
for when someone will find her 
piano hands,
swooped hair,
learned eyes,
strawberry lips 
and sunny laugh—
and they decide to keep us forever. 
(we are a package deal, of course.)

About the Author: lila woodard
everyone is a genius, but if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid — Albert Einstein