She moves, and moves
expects life to fill a yearning,
bottomless craving, a pit.
Young face etched with uncommon sorrow,
she doesn’t yet understand the power of thoughts.
Nubile, she hasn’t calculated
life as the means by which we are blessed
with conditions and kinesis,
this dance of adversity and rapture;
maturation only as rapid as we, ourselves allow,
simply to surrender into the miracle
of a blink in eternity,
this life, as we know it –
splendor on a spinning orb.