The Least Of Her
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
There are beings in this world
whose presence alters the air—
who step into a room
and the light recalibrates,
as if attempting
to understand a new kind of beauty.
She is one of them.
People see the surface first—
the shimmering form,
the impossible symmetry,
the way she carries herself
as though the earth tilts
slightly toward her.
They marvel,
as if beauty were the whole story.
As if radiance alone
could explain the gravity of her.
But her beauty,
stunning as it is,
is the least of her.
Because what truly devastates
is the gentleness
with which she holds the world—
how she seems to sense
the fractures in a person
before they split.
How she rests her presence
against the exact place
where the heart forgets
how to mend itself.
She is made of intuition,
pure and ancient,
as though some old wisdom
runs through her veins
instead of blood.
She listens the way
cathedrals listen—
entirely,
sacredly.
And when she looks at you,
it is not a gaze
but a knowing,
unearthing truths
you have not spoken aloud.
There is a steadiness in her
that could anchor storms,
a wildness
that reminds the world
what freedom feels like
before it learns fear.
And yet she chooses softness—
again and again—
as though tenderness
were a kind of destiny.
She has a way
of making you believe
you are still salvageable,
even on the days
you have sworn otherwise.
A way of loving
that feels less like affection
and more like absolution.
If beauty draws the world to her,
let it.
They are witnessing
only the outer silhouette
of something vaster,
older,
and infinitely more extraordinary.
For all her radiance,
all her impossible grace,
all the ways she catches the eye
of a world not built to hold her,
the truth remains:
Her beauty—
breathtaking,
unearthly,
unforgettable—
is still,
and always,
the least of her.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
