Who were you if not a faint citrus scent carried by the breeze?

Freckles were the dappled constellations on velvet cloth,

the wind toying with your cherry-maple coils;

always red hair and green eyes—but no.

Your eyes were brown.

Why were they dark, steeped in the bloodstained histories

of ages past, sharpened on flint and campfire stones?

Carrying the burden of repeated centuries

and unspoken memoirs, poetries by The Bard

that never saw the light of day, a softness

that doesn't scream for attention but subtly

persists, if not to be discerned, then to be noticed

Why were you gifted with a lilting voice that spins wine

from water, straw to gold?

Leaving me smudged between moral quandaries,

but no one could dampen the glow of your manner

flecked and inked to life on threaded canvas

Seen to be a dying breed, if you were an oak, then I'd be your alder.