My Collector

a collector.

she smiles,
with flames upon her eyes.

crinkled dry,
emptied of sunshine,
twin sycamore seeds.
she speaks softly of them,

their rolling dances,
through hands or waves or winds,
to get here.

dead to me.
just cracked, dusty,
placeholders for life.

but, in her I see,
the brilliance of everything.
what she finds,
between the gaps of this world,
soon stories stored safely away.

in her, I see the brightness,
my collector.