She moves like poetry, unrhymed yet perfect,
A grace unshaped by rules or time.
Eyes that hold storms and sunshine together,
A quiet strength wrapped in something divine.
She speaks, and the world leans in closer,
For wisdom often wears a softer tone.
She loves with hands that heal without trying,
A touch that lingers like a summer breeze.
Her laughter—light spilling through old stained glass,
Turning the ordinary into something to keep.
She is neither fragile nor hardened by fire,
But something in between, something rare.
She dreams in colors the world hasn’t named,
And builds with hopes that dare to defy.
Not made to be owned, nor meant to be tamed,
Yet she welcomes the ones who see past their pride.
To like her is easy, to know her—a gift,
For she is herself, and that is enough.