She is the Art

Dark curls dance, freckles glow,

She moves like a river, soft and slow,

Eyes hold storms she'll never speak,

A masterpiece, rare and unique.

She is the art, she is the motion,

Alive like waves on a restless ocean,

Not painted, not framed, not still —

She's the brushstroke, the fire, the thrill.

Lips that whisper without a sound,

A universe in her gaze is found,

The artist stepped back, brush in hand —

And realized beauty needs no plan.

Stillness trembling, heart to heart,

She was never the canvas —

She *was* the art.