For Zoë, now.

You move like light across water—
each step, a fleeting miracle.

You dance, and the world holds its breath.

Your body, a vessel for something ancient and untouchable,

bends and rises and defies.

There is no hesitation in your lines, no doubt in your steps—only the sharp, stunning clarity of focus.

And when the music fades and the lights dim, the silence left behind feels

holy.

Your body, carved by grace, speaks a language older than words,
telling stories with your arms, your spine, your impossible strength.

Your face—oh, your face—
is the kind poets stumble over,
but it’s your eyes, darker than midnight and twice as deep,
that undo me.

You wear the world, Zoë.
Sharp humor tucked in the corner of your mouth,
a wit that cuts clean but never cruel. Never cruel.

How did you learn this balance,
this delicate art of being both steel and silk?

You love the dirt and the trees,
the untamed wildness of the earth,
but still, you tie your hair with precision,
choose your clothes like armor—
sharp, intentional, immaculate.

You are perfect to me.

And this love—this towering, suffocating, endless love—
is unbearable in its beauty.

I cannot stop time, cannot keep you small,
cannot shield you from every shadow.
But I can watch.
I can bear witness.

To your brilliance,
to your bravery,
to the way you leave fingerprints on the world
that will never fade.

You are my daughter.
You are my ache, my joy, my unspeakable gift.

And I am so, so grateful
that I get to stand here,
in the quiet of this moment,

and love you.