She is Not a Flower (a poem without an ending)

She seems to understand me
on a level deeper than myself
and holds no judgment
for the scars carved onto my heart.

Her voice is like dancing laughter,
the early bird singing of spring.
I hope to be more than just a worm to her
she seems to give my heart wings.

My thoughts can't help but turn poetic
as I seek the words to define her.
She is not something to be plucked,
arranged as a decoration only to be admired.

She is not a flower,
she is the forest;
deep with many shadows,
full of life and mystery.

She is not the sunrise,
it crawls across dark horizons
to gently caress her awake
in an intimate embrace of golden light.

She is not the summer breeze,
hushing my troubled mind to sleep.
It flows softly through her like a grove of trees
whispering sweet lullabies.

Sometimes I reach for her in the dark
when I wake troubled in the night,
and whenever she is there
the ghosts and shadows always subside.

Still, I don't pretend to know her
but I know how she makes me feel;
beyond those deep eyes and smile of sunshine
lies a whole world I long to reveal.