I like to think the lines under your eyes
the dark swirls like entropy,
aren’t the unreasoned answer to
the question we’ve thrust forth.
That bluebird of a nose still crinkles. The rich
brown eyes still shine through sunsets. Yet
there’s a foot stamp in the snow we can’t see,
steel behind six year old words which I can’t fathom.
Tell me you’re really as flexible as the wind daughter.