Her first words were poetry, Painting passion into people like every soul was a self-portrait titled "Kindness".
As a child she gave each color words that they could only ever scream, She gave a voice that flowed like water, A symphony of dreams.
She grew like fondness, Towering above us at five foot everything but forever looking up like we were the night sky holding starlight in our eyelids like secrets.
She waits. Soaking in silence, still Waiting. Like the world is whispering and she's trying to hear it.
Her own whisper floats like falling snow that melts on your eyelashes so that it might retrace the steps of the last tear you cried just in case, It's not too late to catch it.
She is a million moments of lightness, A thousand "I'm sorry's" for the wrongdoings of others. She is one hundred sleepless nights of someone else's nightmares, Kept up with gallons of fresh-ground giving wanting nothing in return but to know She means it.
She's got big in her fingertips like the sun setting and rising into itself, Until it burns the whole sky down.
She is a quiet presence with an absence that deafens. Planting patience into moments like flowers. So that you can watch them grow into a billion brilliant bulbs of every miss you've ever made, But were too scared to hope for.
She paints life onto the ordinary until it knows that it was never anything but beautiful.
Forever expanding the vocabulary of the colors she breathed words into in a children's coloring book whose lines could Never keep her in.
While the whole world waits, Just hoping to hear them.