Relatively Stranger - Kathleen Bechtold

She is the song
you don't know you don't know
until you've heard it:
the far-off whisper music,
the deep-down laughter music, the
what is the word for the motion of water
in the river in the snow-melt season?
What is the sound of the attitude of leaves
in the week after the storm?
What is the voice of the mountain,
of the canyon, of the grasslands?
How do you hear the sky?
And
she is the breath of the bird's wing
streaming down your cheek.
She is the warmth of the fire
of the stars in the eyes of a stranger.
She is the kiss of a photograph,
the impossible touch of a letterless story,
without the embrace of the pages.
And
she is the portrait, too:
the beauty of a face which
expresses its own character
before you understand its features-
the feeling of unity with the ocean
without knowing every wave.
And
she surely must smell of spices,
of green and yellow gardens, of autumn.
What is the scent of the burgundy sunset?
How do you describe the smell of mornings?
How do we paint the aromas of memories,
of places we've never been, of dreams?
And
what a joy
the fresh smile of a new friend,
the company of her.