The picture

Day as fine As the girl I spot. How beautiful she looks, I thought. What is so great? i ask. Is it her skin? Or the contour of her face? The outfit? Nah. Something deep, I realise. Is it Her intangible passion For reading, that's burning Brighter And brighter? Or The glossy images of pages Perched on her sparkly eyes, Holding millions of stories Etching all deets In her young mind? Birthing perceptions. Insights. And changing opinions.? Or how invested she was To not acknowledge the world around? May be that's what Is so beautiful about beauty? I feel it but not see it or specify? A picture is what it was Of self in the past.