She is young and very ancient.
She lives on the border between naiveté and wonder.
She craves blessings, being, becomings.
She is internal, eternal.
She lets her curiosity flow.
Her non-judgement is a vista of peace.
She listens to the knowing within her unknowing.
She abides by a harmony intuited beneath the nervous chatter.
Her tears are awakeners, her breath a clarion of comfort.
She is devoted to a world outside of time, mind, surface stumbles.
Her joy is wafting, incendiary, illumination.
She is the poet’s quiet lines on an open heart.
Remember to love her, feed her green things, give her every reason to thrive.