She shivers every time, a quaking 

aspen of flesh. Says it reminds her
of a grandmother’s touch.
 
Those eyes are no diamond’s sparkle.
They are the clear true apertures 
of a kind, wholehearted person.
 
Hair, not of fine silky-smooth 
glistening honey but the delicate
extended crown of a glorious mind.
 
No neck of alabaster has she.
It’s a mystery that turns a smile 
toward me, a living female muscle.
 
Beauty is woman entire.
She is the world.