Do not let her take root
in the silt,
where her budding beauty
is tendrilled to the inky black
that hides her depths.
Her fate is stillness.
Her purpose:
polite, delicate existence,
until she withers,
wilting,
never knowing that blooming
is not belonging.
Teach her to float
like dandelion fluff,
an untamed wish that dances
with the vines of the willows.
Teach her to sway
in the saw grass,
strumming the cattails
like a harp.
Teach her to burn
with the light
that breaks through the pines
in  golden beams
that can make
even the tiniest gnats
and particles of dirt
into stardust.
Let her unlearn the hush
of expected tranquility.
Teach her to howl
with conviction,
not to fear baring her teeth,
or leaving her mark.
Teach her to become
the heartbeat of the forest
where the water lilies only dream.