Her beauty is a flower
shyly peeking its head above ground,
but bursting with color.
Hers is the
gentle touch of the spring breeze,
the placid clarity of
a mountain lake—
the warmth given by a lover.
My beauty is the thunderstorm.
It is all rage and all danger,
streaks of white light,
igniting flames.
Mine is the
the leap of a tiger,
a bird in flight,
the crashing of the waves.
Beauty is air
is fire
is water
is the ground;
it is knowing that a loved one
is safe and sound.
It is a rumbling purr,
a mountain tall,
a lilting song,
the leaves in fall.
So, I ask you?
Who is more beautiful—
me or her?