Short and Sweet

She Is

She is jet-black hair

That glows blonde in the sunlight.

She is afternoon drives

With the windows down,

Carefree yells and laughs

Drifting out onto the street.

She is too-much-cinnamon

On soggy french toast

(that's just how she likes it,

Don't judge).

She is dew on the grass,

Glinting like diamonds in the morning.

She is bookshelves and books,

Holed up in a corner on a beanbag

Lost in fairytales

And her own imagination.

She is little smiles

Shared over cups chamomile tea -

Steam fogging up her glasses.

She is scuffed-up sandals,

Worn every summer for two years in a row.

She is twirl-and-spin,

Tapping to the beat of the music.

She is terrible singing,

Though she tries.

She is crazy riddles

And midnight phone calls,

Cat cafes

And flower crowns.

She is the snow in December,

And daisies in the spring.

She is strappy Hawaiian dresses

And balcony gardens:

Avocado plants

Climbing ivy,

Basil and mint.

She is don't-judge-a-book-by-its-cover

And bring-a-jacket, you'll-be-cold

(at which she is almost always, infuriatingly, right).

She is 17 years of perfection

Wrapped up in a checkered jacket,

Jeans shorts and a too-big t-shirt,

Hair caught in the zipper

And blowing in the wind.