Speak her in song
as violins cry softly
uninhibited by note
or measure.
She flies; wings unfurled
without something so trivial
as a name.
She is wind at your neck
that makes you shiver
and you desire to touch her;
keep her like a gem
but she cannot be confined,
so you write her in a poem;
a delicate Sonnet
you can breathe in
like the scent of a book
that you can love
but never own.