Her hands are ice, in color and to touch;
They shake with winter chill in summer heat.
Perhaps her words may tend to say too much,
And yet, her truths are never quite complete.

Her eyes are not like gems, not past compare
But river stones that time has worn away.
The sunlight mourns to tangle in her hair,
Her skin not porcelain, but brutish clay.

We pass upon the avenue at dusk
Her smile is sweet, a trap for butterflies.
She rattles, wind-born, winter's empty husk
And I give honest thanks for honest lies.

No frozen moon could hold such distant chill;
She doesn't know. Perhaps she never will.