The Spark

She glides in the morning.
Her tiny toes never touching
the floor as she dances
through the house. School, chores,
even somber funerals, find her singing
sweet life that bursts from her
lighted lips in a mirthful cadence.

In the dying summer light of September
she has kissed the wilted grass,
waltzing gracefully through nine hymns
of her blazing, ascending birth.
Every creature, every mossy stone,
whispers their delight in the warmth
of her tender, grasping hands.

I preach, I bemoan, beware the bitter strangers
who have no soul- no sense of your frolicking
lightness. Yet she sees through the hard
flesh and scowling lips, delighting in the rapture
of touching their withered spirits. Humanity
is not damned. In her pulsing heart and shimmering
brown pools, everything has a spark.