The woman I love is a bewitching poet.  Mark my words — someday, when she no longer hides her light under a bushel, countless people will find themselves captivated by her talents.

She so naturally places her fingertips upon metaphors and similes that they seem like reflexive second languages to her.  They punctuate her speech and writing effortlessly — and lyrically.  If ever there were someone who was meant to be a poet, it’s her.