The whole world will look different,
When we are pretty.
Every morning the Sun,
And our little round mirror will rise,
Only to illuminate the structure of our face.
Because every frame is art,
On stop-action days,
When hosts of daffodils turn,
To watch us walk away,
And people tend to talk,
Of the tiny perfection they find,
In the corners of our eyes,
The tapered ends of our fingers.
And our wrists and elbows.
And we never see a shadow
As shadow, but as necessary space,
Between highlights.