The Grace ...

She wasn't looking from over a rook,
Yet, her zeal drew me and many another;
Her head bent over a book,
Above, even the branches did cower.

Twirling her hair into a curl,
She put her Parker to constant use;
Her tongue moved on her lips in a swirl,
Part in thirst, part pondering the ruse.

She was having a go at a verbal poser,
And was baffled by the final clue;
She didn't seem to be getting any closer,
Cuss words tailing her word slew.

She crossed her right leg over her left,
Her right hand, now, propping up her chin;
She looked into the distance, seemingly bereft
Of the word that she should fill in.

Yonder, through the thick of trees,
The sun had begun his descent;
The glowing skyline put her at ease,
She dropped the puzzle she'd come to resent.

Soon, she was off the bench,
Across the street, framing her hands;
Trying to keep the sun from the trench,
She smiled, pushing back unruly hair strands.

Meanwhile, I peered into the page,
Looking for that stumping hint;
It shouldn't have, I did gauge,
Been able to check the verbalist's sprint.

I didn't need more than a trice,
Even as she fought for the last rays;
If she could've only seen through my eyes,
The word did but speak of her ways - the grace.