She seemed but a child as
she leapt the last steps,
and giggled
Yet her posture
landing fluidly
then standing, straight
was well beyond
her years.
She laughed,
not at what they
said,
but because
she loved laughter.
Then
she would become
stony-faced
listening, intent,
undettered.
I saw her
crouch away
from her peers,
but rule
over
the bully.
I heard her
cry
silently for
the death
of an unknown,
but sing,
loudly,
in the rain.
I tasted all
her words
carefully,
touched her
steady
hand,
and smelled
her fear
of
heights.
Yet still –
I
wonder, who
is she?
Is she
young or old?
happy or said?
shy or outspoken?
I guess she is uniquely hers –
and mine.