Her hair a waterfall of silk

A slender line of borrowed pale,
You shift the wind, you bend the veil.
Where eons hum and silence grows,
The echo flows
Into the space your stillness fills—
A silver birch on frozen hills.
You're woven from the aether's seam,
The fragile spine of every dream.

She stands beyond the furthest reach,
Upon a shore I cannot breach.
Her form—a verse of slender script,
The ink of stars on darkness dripped.
That fall of hair, that weight of time,
A silken avalanche of rhyme.
She leans—the arc of unsaid prayer,
Reframing all the thinner air.

And her hair—a waterfall of silk, a dusk undone,
A cascade where the comets stall and wayward starlight runs.
Her eyes are melted honey glass, where ancient summers smolder deep,
A brown so soft it stills the grass, a promise that the angels keep.
She breathes—a whisper of a string, the chord that never finds its ground,
My distant, everlasting thing, the stillness where I'm lost and found.