She learned the world by scraped-knee grammar,
By wind that never asked for leave.
Her voice broke rules before the silence
Learned what it meant to disbelieve.
They dressed her fire in borrowed manners,
Called grace a cage, called calm a crown.
Yet something fierce refused to vanish,
It only learned to settle down.
At dusk, the water held its breath.
No mirror spoke, no judge was there.
The girl stepped forward—not corrected,
Not softened—only made aware.
A swan is not the death of motion,
Nor elegance the loss of will.
It is the art of bearing wildness
With wings that choose to travel still.
Nemo
