She

I can’t see her.
Draped in woven guile
she stands apart,
beyond the grasp of hands or heart …
or mind or will.

Despite the best of my designs,
she waits within the cage she’s made
for some great change that isn’t me.

An architect of mystery,
her stubborn shrouded strands
deflect my hows and whys and
misdirect the gentle probes and pointed quest
for access past the outer guard
to see the she that hides so hard.

I know it’s there,
a shadowed shape.
She deftly dodges all attempts
to stare into those naked eyes and
dwell inside her secret depths
in hopes, perhaps, that she’ll confide
some passing bit of self to me.

I will not quit this driven search
to delve the well behind the veil
and free the she beneath that layered guise
of distant care she lays.

I cannot see her,
not today;
but patience rides my every breath and
I can say with certainty,
I’ll walk her walls until my death
or such a day will dawn that shines from
she to me and I will see
though mist construed to only her.