Molded into the creases of my hands
Without worry or fear
No, there is worry and fear.
But not the type that burdens the soul.
I wonder how long she can keep it.
She’s simple, yet more complex than me.
She balances on the tip of a
Thin strand of the cloud’s silver lining
She sings the songbird’s most memorable tune
And portrays wisdom of a thousand tree rings
She treads even the most perilous waters
And floats above fiction with the pages as her waves.
I see her rebuilding pieces of
Shattered images and flaws
She takes them into her arms
As if each are worth the cause
And she breathes in such confidence
As if it were lighter than oxygen
She inhales it without regard
Yes, she is innocent
And blind to worry and fear
I just hope she is ready
Should she ever drop a tear.