Disclaimer: I do hereby disclaim all rights and responsibilities for the characters in this songfic… especially for the monk who was bemused when I suggested "Poetry in Motion" should be his seem thong… err, theme song. Miroku-sama and the crew belong to Rumiko Takahashi.

Author's Note: I wrote this because… well, because I don't like songfics. ׃׃smirk׃׃ I'm just contrary that way—wanted to see if I could have fun with it. Anyhow, this was written in response to Forthright's Songfic Challenge over on Live Journal.

I See Poetry

When I see my baby, what do I see? Poetry—poetry in motion.

Lovely? Well, certainly… but that hardly did her justice. Graceful? Undeniably, yet the word fell short somehow. Miroku paced along steadily, staff providing a harmonious counterpoint to his wandering thoughts. Kagome walked beside him, thumbs hooked into the straps of her yellow backpack as she matched his easy strides. There was a spring in her step, and the monk heard snatches of a melody as she hummed quietly to herself.

Lyrical? Perhaps, especially if you take into consideration the rhythmic motion of her hips. Miroku glanced discretely down at the young woman, enjoying the carefree bounce that set her short, pleated skirt to swaying. He never tired of watching Kagome walk. Oh, it was true that the brevity of her skirt drew his eye, making it hard not to stare. The way her hemline brushed against bare thighs and flipped playfully with every step was positively hypnotic, but there was more to his fascination than the tantalizing glimpses her impracticable attire offered.

"What are you thinking about, Miroku-sama?" came a soft interruption.

Miroku's eyes snapped upwards to meet a searching gaze, "Hm? Oh, I'm sorry, Kagome-sama. Did you say something?"

"It's nothing, really. You just seemed lost in thought, and I was wondering where you'd gone."

Realizing the unvarnished truth wasn't his wisest course at this juncture, the monk evaded with deferential courtesy, "My apologies, Kagome-sama. I had not meant to leave you unattended. Someone as lovely as yourself should command all of a man's attention."

Kagome snorted softly in amusement, but continued to look into Miroku's face with curiosity and concern. He relented slightly by answering in a more serious tone, "I assure you, I had not wandered far at all."

"All right," Kagome nodded, flashing a bright smile. "So… what were you thinking about, Miroku-sama? You looked pleased."

"Ah, I was just admiring the beauties of the day," he said, waving a hand to imply generalities.

"It is a lovely day, and this has to be one of the prettiest places we've ever traveled through," Kagome replied. "I was just wishing I could capture it somehow. You know, take a picture or write a poem about it—'Ode to a Summer Day' or some such nonsense. I don't think I could pull it off though."

"Finding the right words can be a daunting task," Miroku agreed readily, with a sidelong peep at her fluttering skirts.

Poetic? That just might do. There's a cadence and flow to the way she moves. It's like poetry. Kagome's entire attitude delighted Miroku—vibrant and optimistic, pure and sweet, cheerful and devoted. With each sprightly step, she exuded a carefree loveliness that had caught him off guard. Hers had been an unstudied seduction, but no less effective for all its innocence.

Poetry in motion, walking by my side
Her lovely locomotion keeps my eyes open wide
Poetry in motion, See her gentle sway
A wave out on the ocean could never move that way

Women were wonderful creatures—all smooth lines and soft curves. Miroku had always had a weakness for beautiful women, but this one girl had wreaked havoc with his past proclivities. In some ways, Miroku rued the day his path had crossed hers, for she'd single-handedly revised his every ideal by redefining feminine perfection. She'd sashayed in and turned his life upside down.

This girl was unlike any other—bafflingly so. She simply didn't conform to the accepted standards of propriety. In this day and age, women cultivated demure manners—hands folded, heads bowed, eyes downcast. They swathed their slender bodies in multiple layers of fabric, binding themselves away under a frustratingly complicated series of knots. Tiny feet moved with a distinctive shuffle, scuffing softly across the floor as they teetering around him, tittering and blushing. Those other girls, with their bobbing and bowing, blended together in his mind—unremarkable, indistinguishable, interchangeable. No individual had caught his eye, turned his head, held his interest. No, they didn't warrant a second glance, but she...

Miroku shook his head with a little frown. Kagome was a bewildering aberration. Where other women were soft-spoken, Kagome was outspoken. She didn't clasp her hands before her and hide her thoughts and feelings behind pale-faced decorum. One glance into Kagome's eyes was enough to tell anyone what was on her mind as the ever-changing play of emotions danced across her sun-kissed face. She didn't mince along, taking the tiny steps necessitated by constraining layers of fabric. She strode with confidence, arms swinging by her sides, head high, eyes alert to their surroundings.

"You're frowning now," observed Kagome. "Is anything the matter? You seem troubled."

"Kagome-sama, you fill my every thought, so how could I be troubled?" effused Miroku with a wink.

The young woman blinked, then shook her head in disbelief, "Miroku-sama, you spout the most ridiculous nonsense sometimes. Has anyone told you that you're completely incorrigible?"

"Not today," the monk replied cheekily.

"Thank goodness you've gotten word," Kagome teased back.

Kagome held nothing back and hid nothing—in more ways than one. Her clothes were barely decent, scandalous even, and yet she behaved like the maiden he knew her to be. She carelessly flaunted her girlish figure, which the monk judged would only continue to improve with age. Miroku risked another lingering appraisal—tapered waist, swell of hip, curve of buttock, all nicely accentuated by the maddening toss of box pleats. Ah, the temptations of forbidden fruit. That swish and swivel was like a siren song to his so-called cursed hand—one he dared not heed.

I love every movement; there's nothing I would change
She doesn't need improvement; she's much too nice to rearrange
Poetry in motion, dancing close to me
A flower of devotion a'swaying gracefully

Miroku battened down the urge to smooth his free hand over the contours of Kagome's softly undulating figure. It really wouldn't do to let the young woman know just how much he appreciated that little green skirt of hers. To call attention to his voyeurism might make her self-conscious enough to change her ways, and she was perfect just as she was. Controlling his impulses was a small price to pay for the continuance of this simple pleasure. Keeping his eyes studiously forward for the most part, Miroku contented himself with stolen glances whenever Kagome wasn't looking his way.

"Today is nice, isn't it, Miroku-sama?" Kagome enthused.

"I cannot recall one nicer, Kagome-sama."

"What's your favorite part, Miroku-sama?" she asked, eyes on a patch of wildflowers.

"Walking next to you," the monk replied calmly.

The miko rolled her eyes. "Be serious, Miroku-sama," she demanded.

"I am in complete earnest," Miroku protested in injured tones.

"Flattery doesn't count as a serious answer," insisted Kagome.

The monk raised his brows innocently. "Ah, but it cannot be called flattery if it is the simple truth," he countered.

Kagome sighed in consternation, "Do you never say what you're really thinking, Miroku-sama?"

Miroku tilted his head, violet eyes sparkling, "Who says that's not what I'm really thinking?"

It never ceased to amaze Miroku how trusting Kagome could be. In spite of his irregular overtures and half-jesting propositions, she was right here, walking by his side. His amorous tendencies didn't concern her one whit. She seemed to expect and even accept such things as an inescapable facet of his personality. If Miroku had to venture a guess, he'd even wager that his 'idiosyncrasies' amused her to some extent. His lecherous remarks brought laughter just as often as they brought the swift retribution of a hearty slap.

Kagome didn't countenance any liberties he might try to take with her person, but neither did she avoid his company. Kagome took his flirtations in stride and waved off his pretty compliments. No matter how much he turned on the charm, she did not flush and giggle like the village girls they'd met. More often than not, she'd simply roll her eyes and ignore his philandering. Oddly enough, the miko took him more seriously than Miroku took himself. She counted him a friend and made no secret of the fact that she valued his opinion.

Poetry in motion; see her gentle sway
A wave out on the ocean could never move that way
I love every movement; there's nothing I would change
She doesn't need improvement; she's much too nice rearrange

While Kagome's eyes followed the flight of a pair of birds chasing their way across the sky, Miroku snatched at the chance to let his eyes run rampant. It would be a disservice to ignore such perfection. Yes, Kagome moved like poetry—nothing too long or too serious, though. She was a rollicking little ditty—the toe-tapping kind, light and playful. She traipsed along with an easy lilt that kept his eyes wide open. Kagome distracted him from more serious matters by lending him a much more cheerful line for his thoughts to follow.

I'm lucky, I guess. She knows enough about my predilections and penchants and past to be wary. Not many would expect to find such staunch friendship in a girl he's attempted to seduce. This singular woman, wise to his wheedling ways, had favored him with understanding, empathy, and consideration. For all his attempts to intrigue and entrap her, he'd been the one caught in the end. All unknowing, Kagome had won his heart.

Miroku turned a fond gaze on Kagome, still humming as she sauntered along. He was awed by her openhearted acceptance and admitted to an answering fealty beneath his customarily rakish manner. Loathe as he was to admit it, even to himself, he adored her. Admiration made his heart beat just a little bit faster whenever she was in sight. That, and the lovely little shimmy in her step.

Poetry in motion, all that I adore
No number nine love potion could make me love her more

End Note: "Poetry in Motion," is a perky little tune written by Paul Kaufman and Mike Anthony. It was made famous by Johnny Tillotson, and 'whoa, whoa, whoa'-ed at the top of the charts for several weeks in 1960, peaking in the #2 slot. 1,651 words.