Beneath the thinning ice
A small streamlet flows;
Spring is made of my heart.
She’s a fighter. Not a brute or a bully, but determined, resolved, purposeful. Water flowing around rock, slowing jagged edge into something level, smooth, a way through. She’s a fighter. Not a clamor, but a quiet hopefulness. She didn’t walk until she was ready and then she stood, unassisted, and walked from the family room into the kitchen. She didn’t talk until she had something to say and then one day out of the blue, she walked to the top of the stairs, threw down her music box, and spoke in a full sentence: I don’t want you to go. She was 2.
This little bird, just out of the nest, dark wings spiraling out, is raising her face to the wind, is gonna fly.