I watched her stand with hands on hips,
her grey eyes wide and nostrils flaring,
indignant look on her pretty face,
pouting lips mouthing words so daring.
Though she could spit like some alley cat,
like a kitten lost she would softly mew.
Fierce pride veiled her susceptible heart;
she was understood by few.
Twenty one times around the seasons
this beloved child of mine has gone;
skipped through joys of spring and summer,
fallen with leaves onto harsh winters long.
Her tender heart could have frozen with ease,
but a fiery spirit keeps fears under control.
An inner glow warms all who surround her;
she has a very beautiful soul.
Copyright © 2002 Christine Magee • All rights reserved.