If I tried to tell you she had an exquisite face,
I could only fail.
It was perfect like a pearl.
It was young like the dew at sunrise.
It was animated like the brook just burbling from the glistening snow bank
at midday.
It was smooth like Mary’s Lake at dusk.
Her eyes were her eyes.
Her every feature and line were her’s.
And then she half-turned towards me.
And then she was laughing and waving at the jumbotron.
Her face,
there,
next to this much older, puffy, red-faced ogre.
If I were her grandfather,
I might have reached out my hand and touched her mocha cheek.
I might have asked her how her race had gone.
And then, like a fawn, she skipped away.
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