They called her child,
yet the stars bent down to listen
when she spoke.

She was born
with galaxies behind her eyelids,
ash of ancient moons
in the crescent of her palms.

In classrooms,
she learned nothing new—
only watched
as the world caught up
to what her marrow already knew.

She stitched silence
into her sentences,
wore grief like pearls
strung along the collarbone of time.

Rain would hush for her,
mirrors would blink twice,
and clocks sometimes refused
to tick in her presence.

She moved
like someone who remembered
being fire
before flesh.

And when the grown-ups
chuckled at her wisdom,
she simply smiled—
a soft, secret smile
like she’d seen their ghosts
and offered them tea.

I press my hand down,
Slowly, onto the surface
Taking in all of what I feel
A slow still, a polite chill

I think it's oak, maybe mangrove
Aged richly to a russet fade
I trace the grains,
Nothing to be unsee.

There's hints of umber
And a dash of pecan,
A smell so earthy, divine
Softly coated so nothing splinters

Lines trace the frame
Like a painter pieces a canvas
Swirled lines like calligraphy
A piece of art.