April 5 : Dusky Rose

Her shoulders shone in the
elegant evening sitting-room light.
Her fingers were slender and still.
Her dress was the color of a dusky rose,
and her eyes were the grey of the sky.

They all saw her glide gracefully along
and pick out strawberries from large blue bowls.
She was quiet unless spoken to, and always
always said the right things. Her legs were long,
her knees not brown, her smile a perfect curve.

Her mind was beautiful, they said, trying
(unsuccessfully) to not talk about her arms.
Her hair was the color of the starless night
(the stars were all tucked up in her sight -
her beautiful, sky-grey eyes). Together,
all, they admired and envied her. Looked.

Her collarbones were splendid, majestic;
her cheekbones high and lovely. Her skin
was the brown of sleek, supple, waxed wood;
her mind, they said, was divine. Someday
she would be old; her wrinkles would stretch her
and command her fragility until the wood melted
into leather and the shine wore off. Someday.

Until then, she clasped her second glass
of pink-bubbled champagne, her feet poised
upon the floor (almost ready to perform).
Until then, she smiled absently at them,
Quiet in her blanket of many-petaled beauty.
Her eyes (sky-grey, with all the stars) slid
around the grand room. Never stopping.

Her mind was underwater, with the
colorful fish and the deafening silence
and the smooth rocks and drifting thoughts.
Her slender fingers (upon her starched dress)
were still. Collarbones out. Feet poised.