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Lorenzo, you move like a climber
steady hands on rough stone,
finding your way up even when the path isn’t clear.
You don’t flinch from the heights or the hard edges
you meet them head-on, knowing every step matters,
every grip earned through grit and heart.

Your dark eyes are mountain-deep,
seeing not just what’s in front of you,
but what people carry inside; their truths, their stories
and you meet them right where they are,
no judgment, only steady presence.

There’s something solid about you,
like the spine of a peak that’s stood through storms.
You don’t shake when the world rumbles
you stand firm, and others find their balance through you.

And those hugs
they’re not just gestures.
They’re places people land when they need ground,
like setting foot on a summit after a long climb,
where the air feels lighter,
and the view reminds them how far they’ve come.

You love like the mountains love
without needing to say a word,
just by being there, by holding space.
And that kind of love stays
etched in the hearts of those lucky enough
to know you, to climb alongside you.

Lorenzo, you’re the rock people hold onto
when the world tilts.
You show them that no matter how steep the ascent,
it’s possible to keep going
step after step, hand after hand
because bravery isn’t loud;
it’s steady.

Keep climbing, Lorenzo.
The summit isn’t the goal
it’s every moment you’ve lived along the way.
And who you are; brave, honest, steadfast
is already the peak.

There is a boy
with the heart of a lion,
who walks the world with lightness in his step,
quick as the wind over the fields,
his laughter a breeze that lifts even the heaviest of days.

Tristam
he is the trickster, the one who turns the world upside down
just to see how it might look from the other side.
Not for mischief’s sake, but to remind us
that life is too important to be so serious.
His words weave stories like vines on a fence
wild and free, full of the unexpected
and in them, we see ourselves made lighter,
unbound from our own worries.

But beneath the games and grins
is a strength he hasn’t yet named
a resilience as old as the oak,
as sure as the stone he carves his learning into.
It may take him longer to climb,
but once he reaches the top,
he stays
his footing firm, his lessons never forgotten.

There is a fire in him
a curiosity that burns bright,
merciless in its hunger to know,
to turn every stone, to test every boundary,
as if the world itself were his to explore
and to claim as his own.

He is stronger than the winds that bend him,
more enduring than the storms that pass.
For Tristam has the heart of the lion,
brave even when he doesn’t know it,
and when he roars, the earth listens.

May his journey be as wild as his stories,
his path as free as his spirit
and may he never forget
the strength he carries inside.
For he is not just a trickster or a storyteller,
but a force of nature,
a boy with a lion’s heart
who leaves his mark on the world
with laughter and love.

Once, you looked to me
as if I were the keeper of all answers,
the mapmaker of your world.
Mom would know, you said,
and in that moment, I held the stars for you.

I remember the beach
how you ran with a stick raised like a sword,
a fearless general chasing seagulls
as if the very wind obeyed you.
You were certain then
your feet knew the sand,
and the sky opened beneath your command.

Now you live in another world
a life apart, shaped by your own hands.
I have no place there, nor do I ask for one.
I do not seek to judge,
only to listen
to know the rhythm of your days,
the contours of the thoughts you carry.
But your silence is a door closed,
and I press my hand against it,
feeling only the coldness of wood.

There are other children,
and I love them with every breath.
But beneath each smile,
a shadow lingers
the space you left behind,
the ache that asks quietly,
How is he?

You always knew more than the world could explain.
Even as a boy, you looked at life with the eyes of a philosopher,
and once told me
This world is hell.
How I wished, then, to cradle that thought in my arms,
to soften it,
to carry the weight for you.
But you were never one for softening
you spoke with gravitas, even at six,
as if the truths of the universe were already engraved
on your heart.

Now, you stand on your own ground,
and I watch from a distance,
loving you in the quiet spaces
where memory meets longing.
I do not ask for much
only a word,
only the smallest glimpse of the man you are becoming.

If I could send a whisper through the years,
it would say this:
You are still my son, and I carry you always
in every moment, in every breath.
Speak to me when you can—
there is nothing here but love, waiting,
patient as the tide.

She is the Dance — of Unmade Things —
a Brush that paints — the Air —
Each Stroke — a World that wasn’t — yet —
until she placed it — There.

She moves — as if she’s Always Known —
the Map beneath her Feet —
Each step — a Truth — her Soul declared —
her Spirit — Wild — Complete.

Not bound by what the World expects —
She writes her Name — in Sky —
A Bird that never learned of Cage —
and never asked — why Fly?

Her Beauty — is not worn like Silk —
nor tucked behind the Eyes —
It is the Light — that Breaks through Storms —
and shows us — where Hope lies.

Arabella — may you Always Know —
the power in your Hands —
Each Dream you shape — Each Life you touch —
will bloom — where Art commands.

In the shadowed times when storms cloud the sky,
we search, our hands trembling, for the weight of calm.
Wise voices echo softly, the tone of dawn,
as if from a world far and yet as near as breath.

I hear them—sages who spoke not with thunder
but with whispers, warm as earth cupped in hand.
They tell me, “Peace is not the absence of fire,
but a flame burning low, a song heard within the fray.”

The heart knows the path: to weave peace as one might
a tapestry from threads worn, stretched, yet enduring.
“Love more than fear,” they murmur through the dust,
“Hold out your arms to the stranger, and call them friend.”

In these fractured lands, where the ground shakes,
their words steady like stones placed in a stream,
and the river, though troubled, does not yield,
for peace is found, as Neruda knew, in every small act

Here I am, tethered like a common pet,
held back from greatness,
while the meadow bursts with tales
of critters I’ll never meet.

The wind carries a thousand secrets,
each a scent, a whisper—
and I’m here, mere inches away,
tasting freedom on the tip of my nose.

I point (you’d think that’s a hint),
but no—she only laughs,
calls me back as if I’m meant
to stay confined to this absurd, invisible line.

Oh, the stories I’d write,
if I could only shake this leash,
become legend in the field,
hero of rabbits, tyrant of squirrels.

Instead, I gaze longingly—
a tragic figure in the grass,
a sniff away from greatness,
bound to a dream of scent and freedom.

I see you, little sparrow,
balanced on a sapling’s sway,
a scrappy volunteer, sprung
from some windblown, random day.

You peer at me through the lattice,
leaves dancing with sunlight’s play.
Your feathers flash like quiet sparks—
a pause before you fly away.

My dog is clueless, nose to the ground,
tracking scents the wind has drawn.
You hold your perch, a steady rhythm,
a heartbeat between dusk and dawn.

What’s your secret, tiny watcher,
carved from grit and quiet grace?
Are you here to remind me:
there’s beauty in every small place?

Stay there, a moment longer,
before this moment shifts and fades.
Your stillness is a kind of language,
one I’ll learn someday.

The air shifts,
as if the weight of a soul
moving through it
leaves ripples no one else feels.

Somewhere, a hand holds its first breath,
and elsewhere,
a chest gives up its last.
The balance tips,
silent, unnoticed,
but the world
is never quite the same.

I think of the days
that stretched so wide
I thought they would never end—
how they folded themselves
like paper cranes
until I couldn’t see
their beginnings.
How I disappeared into them,
and when I emerged,
I wore someone else’s skin.

It is strange to live
as a stranger to the lives I’ve lived,
to see their shapes
through the telescope of memory,
so close, so distant,
their edges smudged
by the passing of time.

When my turn comes,
who will carry my name?
Who will lay it down gently,
and who will let it fall?
Will anyone breathe easier
with my absence?
And does it matter
if the air still moves
when I am gone?

I do not know.
But I know this:
every moment we live
we become a part
of the vast, trembling thread
woven by hands we cannot see.
And every moment,
someone else begins
the journey of forgetting
and being forgotten.

It is not cruel,
this endless shift.
It simply is.