Speculations for Diana

Because there's shame in being me, and much that I would hide,
I'll talk of what I love in you, try guess at what's inside.
You see, if you won't speak straight out, won't tell yourself to me,
I'll have to trace you of myself, whoever I might be.

There's honey in your kindness and your skill in catching flies,
and patience in your staking out what lives and what thing dies.
With a hand in every project and a hook in every lake,
I wonder you protect yourself from all but one mistake.

You're quick to give a smile, very slow to make a frown;
I doubt the corners of your lips were made for turning down.
So splendidly you play your role and act yourself, right there,
I have a doubt, from time to time, you may be only air.

Authentically you live your life, it can't be with regret,
no thought that long before you're born the board's against you set.
You dropped a hint, just once, recall, to paint yourself a cynic,
but never has it crossed my mind you may be just a mimic.

I love your forthright honesty, the way you tell no tales,
the way your solid character seems more than vapor trails.
And though you dance throughout your days, you leaf without a tree,
your pirouettic consciousness is without irony.

I'd like for you to love me, though I'd rather that you not.
Or did I want some other thing, and simply have forgot?
I fear sometimes that love that's real is less than love that's wanted,
although it leaves me breathlessly, and makes me feel so hunted.