She (Edited)

"You, poet,
What is your muse?"

She,
She is the snow falling through the lamplight
As night curls around the world.
She is soft bubble
Of the sliver of a stream
As it winks down a mountain.
She is beloved pair of Irish eyes.
She is a slender pair of musician's hands.
She is the lowest note of joy,
The highest keen of sorrow,
And all the notes in-between I can never hit.
She is the prickling sting on my ears
As the cold grows too powerful
Even as she wraps me in the warmth
Of every hug I've ever known.

My muse is Life;
For one day,
She'll be Death.