Her fingers traced the outline of a cloud
as if she painted it herself
across the baby blue sky.

The wind —
who travelled so far, for so long —
silently got lost in the mess of her hair.
Her hair that mixed in with the woods.

Where did she end?
Where did the trees start?

Her, as bright as the sun,
who shined her rays down.
Down through the leaves,
each and every one,
so as to form a kaleidoscope
of shadows along and in between the nooks and crannies
that made up here and her.

If I were to edge any closer,
just as a bird,
I would have no chance
and nothing to say.