Her stories might go unheard over the sparkle in her eyes,
The sweeping gestures of her unfolding arms,
Or even the way she glances down
As if to gather another bit of grace.
The tale could be any old thing,
Mustered up from random memories,
Told in the plainest of ways.
But in her words;
Words that seem to catch the first morning sun,
Those rays that fall across the wooden table,
Simple, soft illuminations
Like a summer afternoon yawn,
Slipping into the slumberous, the sublime.
Her stories are of all things:
Big and small,
Near and far,
Hoped for and gotten.
Or maybe the words speak nothing,
While they bring life to everything around.