what her photographs spoke

Softer than snow yet unfallen,
and clouds yet unmoved to places
where they are most needed
look how
stir the petals of ambrosia,
on the tufts of your lips
and restless
every breeze pauses to kiss you.
Winters don’t stop shivering
outside your window,
while you burn day and night in longings
that the world doesn’t see.
I have consumed hunger and it tasted of you,
while roses scattered over streams
stole scents of your dreams
lost themselves into paintings of famished artists.
You were named after a Saint,
I don’t know her,
but I know you.