She laughs. 

She laughs as if her eyes are small pennies 

that disappear into the mouth of a spiral wishing well. 

She does this often — 

it catches you like the optimistic flu.

She loves. 

She loves everyone and hates no one. 

She loves to give with grace and surprise your face. 

She is the beaming sunflower that grows taller than us 

both.

She listens. 

She listens before she speaks — 

a practice of many, a talent of few. 

If you listen, 

you’ll notice she says more than she doesn’t, 

but only truth escapes her lips.

She lingers. 

She lingers in the words of her letters. 

Her blood is made of pencil lead that pumps every page. 

She stretches her spine in the card catalog, 

a collection of intentions to be brought to life. 

She lives. 

She lives in the honeysuckle hum of the rural hummingbird. 

The whistle of the land sings her name. 

All that she is 

is all that she was –

unforgettable.