She Says She Doesn't Write Poetry

She says she doesn't write poetry.
I disagree.

Her eyes, capable of bending light,
colored like storm clouds
and dewy heavens,
damp and lambent,
like raindrops on a dove's back---
they are as expressive as song,
as moving as a melody.

She returns to me like familiar verse,
so easy on my tongue.
She departs like a fading sigh,
always leaving me breathless.

She takes everything that is beautiful
about this world
and concentrates it into a glance;
she blots out the sun with a wink.

Grace endures in her slightest gesture,
symmetry in her vaguest thought,
and art in her voice.

She says she doesn't write poetry.
I disagree.