She stands in the hush before thought becomes breath, her presence gathered from shadow, warmth, and stillness

The water holds her like a private hymn; reeds, dusk, and weathered light keep their distance, as here is something old in her composure

Something Gothic in the way silence clings to her, although the air around her is clear

Wide, sun worn, unhurried, and full of memory; he carries desire without speaking it, the emptiness without surrendering to it

Wanting moves through her like a current, fulfillment settles over her like evening dust, and her beauty is not ornamental

She is exact, and quietly severe, she is thought made visible, grace made flesh

An art form standing between ruin and peace, she is an angel to me