She was a child of the universe,
Wading through the tall grass
Only stopping to reach up, and touch the stars.

I asked her how the stars felt when she touched them,
She replied, "like sunshine in the winter."
I asked her how they made her feel,
Then she told me, it was far too surreal.

The gypsy queen of eighteen,
Her soul, a map of destinations.
Her actions never needing explinations.
As wild and free, as a ship at sea.
She never was, but she will always be.