Little Girl

She is
small to me,
even as she grows and stretches toward the sky,
responding to the sun and rain as a flower moving toward its greatest height.


Her hair
is of spun gold,
which she today tints in the brightness of fuchsia,
the ends spattered with red - the color of life, not death.


Her voice
is nearly imperceptible,
or as big as the sky.
Her mood, her spirit, her energy determining the tone.


She is
at times
the smallest child without direction.
And, without warning, a woman generations in the making, all strength and boldness.


She defies
expectations, boundaries, and me.
She will dance with reason and always take the lead.


She absorbs
the world around her.
This is her nourishment, her sustenance.


She cries
without purpose
her tears sprung from deep inside, as she is sprung from me.


She smiles
with abandon
belying the fear, displaying no hesitancy in her step.


She hurts
easily
from words and bruises alike - the pain equal.


She is
utter perfection,
the universe's greatest work,
and mine.