Her poise is the dawn, the misty fog which mingles with the bleeding purple light, her eyes. Her hair is the strengthening yellows rays which slowly wrap around the trees, poke over the underbrush and dance on my cheek. Her skin is the softly rolling ocean which dusts white foam upon smiling children who scream in delight when their shoes get wet. The dew which collects slowly on leaves, turning them heavy - her voice.

She touches my hand with a whisp of the breeze, and then not. As crimson-purple light lines the horizon she moves along, ever a herald of the morning.