She needed my pen and writing pad
to write her own words, interpreted
toddler scribbles in between the lines
to a poem.

The two-year old was careful as she
scrolled her delicate marks
across the page, a balanced dance
like the gazelle.

Her shapes and curves,
ancient petroglyphs carved
into my poem with hidden meaning
for a volatile world.

Her gentle sceptre
resounds with joyful
marks, a Latin hymn
resonating from the angels.