All Things to All People

Rain was threat'ning; ready to fall.
And that kept her far
when last we spoke.
My mem'ry struggles to hear her voice that day
like playing tug-of-war
with a silk rope
and greasy hands.
But I manage to hold on
and recall so much more.

Micki was replete with duality.
One could feel among highest clouds
with her,
or smaller than an ant in a hole.
So cool she could refresh the parched;
so scorching, she could singe.
Resilient against all that cross'd her.
So like a dandelion in vulnerability,
She could be toss'd
By a child's breath.
Her laugh was as passionate
as full of emotion
as her tears.

The breeze and the hurricane.

How could she have been?
This woman with the
most stubborn ego,
yet so blind to all that made her
so singular
so indescribably beautiful.

One could say
she was a boiling mass of contradiction.
I know she was
all things to all people.
She was.
is.
will always be.
everything.