Though your voice is paper
and your scent is leather,
to call you silence is paradox.
You have touched the globes of grapes
and tasted wine, and even that,
a silent act, has sound.
You are more than cliché, more
than stone, more than slow erosion;
you are the moon, motionless
in constant motion.
You are palpable and parallel,
you are pulchritude and wisdom;
monarch of this kingdom,
you are a poem.