She's like ibuprofen for my writer's cramp; yes, but that's still kind of soft.
She's the Vicodin for my once foul mood; she walks me from basement to loft.
She nudges me gently, changes my view, then let's me figure stuff out
She never stays, and never strays; she seems to have her own route.
A green thumb for many of my random thoughts; she brings the seeds to fruit
Never too close or too far away; she deserves each and every tribute.
She's the catalyst, and, the final goal; the "silent partner" so sweet
She'd rather be quiet than take any credit for things she helps me complete
Every day I'm making attempts to admire her subtly profound ways
She appreciates even the weakest words (these) that wish to give her praise.
I'm happily under the trance she's cast; a spell I thought was all mine.
Look at these lost souls connecting brilliantly; this must be by design.
W. C. Davis
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