Penned in adolescence’s delicate dance,
Admonitions whispered, “No chance.”
yet an artificer’s hands, skilled before her time,
Crafting dreams as paper and ink entwined.

Of an aerialist soaring, defying the earth
on the trapeze, a Pearl, in mystery and mirth.
Alone in the winter woods, a solitary soul,
Lost in the fog, where origami verses unfold.

No apologies for an April satyr’s jest,
A playful dance in words celebrates nature’s fest.
Words, apparel for dreamers, threads of grace,
Woven by winds, to the sky, the poet takes chase.

The March through April May, like a seedling grow.
Apple blossoms in ink fall like gentle snow,
An Aubade for dawn, an ethereal spring song,
Where June’s spirit in summer dances along.

The tall deep-rooted forest the poet’s soul embraces,
It whispers secrets on the wind that time sometimes erases.
Amidst grasses tall a young girl with a solitary plea,
for understanding that in nature she finds a family.

She pens words in the aquatic nocturne’s moonlit waves,
Fighting nightmares to reflect the dreams her heart craves.
Then on August nights, she writes on a canvas of stars,
Penning tales that stretch from Venus to Mars.

Autumn poetry is like paper leaves falling in descent,
A kaleidoscope of colors, like scribble on pages, spent.
Through time and seasons, noting life’s grand arrays,
A poetic journey traveled from dawn to the end of days.