There are words and sentences and paragraphs and stories to describe you.
There are phrases and poems to illuminate the love I have for you.
But I can’t find them.
They rebel against these familiar methods of communication.
They can’t sing their truest notes or phrases or rhythms or harmonies.
No dance understands the fullness of life within you or moves with
the syncopation that touched your hearts’ beat, arriving when you were born.
The letters which make up words don’t seem to find each other,
in any language, to paint the piece of art that knows you.
And yet, in the trying, there is the gentleness one could
call the love of a mother for her daughter.
Always filled with surprise, like the exhalation of breath, but no.
There is more.