She was the sand

If there was a storm, she was always in the middle of it. Where the peace was and the person can see clearly. Nothing disturbed her person, she was not altered by it, it was altered by her. When her dark hair hung relaxed by her side the air would surround it and playfully toss a strand from time to time. When the wind raged her hair would ride the waves of the wind and stretch out against the sky in beautiful defiance. Her eyes would not cloud with the fear of the future. Her lips would never purse, so I would watch them and wait for them to open and her to smile. When she smiled the angels would sing and then her lips would close and the world would go silent again, and the birds would chirp peacefully in the trees.
In the field were she stood the sand rolled in the wind and danced across her feet. It would be carried for a while then lay quietly underneath and between the mesquite and the brush. The sand was sand before it began and sand when it ended. Just like when the storms raged and the clouds of fear crowded their eyes, she quietly let the wind carry her to a new place. She was beautiful when it began, and she was beautiful when it ended.