She dances solo
On a patch of grass
Across from the prison wall
Birch white, with swirls of gray
Like a couture gown on a Paris runway
She wears no leaves of jewelry
Waves her curvaceous branches
Her trunk stretches
Towards the sun
She is aglow from within
My throat aches to
Not have the skill
To expose her visual beauty
My words are corny
Analogies juvenile
I envy the painter
Who shapes and shades
Shadows and highlights
All I have are saturated words
Inadequate for
Her Majesty, and I
I am unworthy