For Amy

The sun bringing its meadow.
The sky filling its sails.
The minerals of earth,
fire and cold.
The hand press of the mountains,
and delicate star on your finger.
A poem for Amy.
What shall we say
to the poem that is Amy?
The smile of her eyes.
Her quick sense of wit
and laughter.
Inward wisdom with the roots
of compassion and patience,
and when she looks on a perfect rose,
I must ask,
how could there be two?
One looking at the other.