She Is Golden

She is all golden, like the air

that breaks through trees

where the leaves were,

and have more room for sunlight.

She is as wild as the leaves tossed

by the wilder wind

and then just as still

when the winds leave.

She is cool as the morning air

when asked about naptime

but warm as the afternoon breeze

when handing out affections.

My spring-born daughter

is at her half-year in the fall

and becomes more herself

as the leaves lose their lifeblood

and carpet the dead grass.

Her soul is alive in the fall,

and mine is swept along, too.

Grateful for the forces

that make her so, and grateful 

for the beauty of change.