One block past the redbud, she soars,
her laughter rippling like sunlight—
a sound that refuses to keep still.
Your arms are rivers carrying her weight,
the rhythm of up and down pulling
at gravity\'s old, tired song.
Her mother\'s glance is both caution
and gratitude tangled in a sigh,
but you—
you can’t stop, not yet,
not with this wild symphony unfolding.
You sweat like summer rain,
legs aching mile-long promises
as the next tree comes into view.
Again, she says, again, she shines—
her joy relentless, her faith in flight
a thing that knots itself around your lungs,
and suddenly, you believe in the sky, too.
By the persimmon, her hand finds yours,
tiny and sticky with the residue of trust.