Ever the dreamer, the beautiful dilettante,
the lover of wishes, the watcher of moons.
The passer of minutes, the swimmer of blueness,
the skipper of rocks on the greenest lagoons.
The gazer of starlight, the walker of meadows,
the mistress of summer, the sister of spring.
The leaper of zeniths, the muser of rivers,
the sifter of clouds, and the rider of wings.
She knows what to do with the sun at her back,
with its warmth on her shoulders spread out on her skin.
She can clamber on treetops and gaze at horizons
and feel so much love radiate from within.
But the difficult task is to dance along pain,
to clutch at its palms and to nuzzle it close.
The baldest discomfort, each roiling displeasure
she'd rather leap past all the thorns in that rose.
Yet her truth and her wholeness is buried there, too,
among all that is brighter and softer and sweet,
and until she is equal with all that surrounds her,
she will lie through her teeth that her life is complete.
She must gather the gravel in tandem with earth,
be as fearless with fears as she is with her glees.
She must visit the places she hardly approves of,
she must open her hands while she bends to her knees.