Every poem written is a reflection of the writer
as much, or more than, the subject.
Each line I’ve written attempts to capture
the emotions you create and inject
into my soul. And yet they only serve
to perpetuate my inferiority
as I try to build my strength and nerve
to approach the level of your beauty
my Muse, my angel from the north
that somehow walks on the land.
No man could summarize your worth;
too frail is the mere mortal hand
to capture heavenly grace on earth.