A tiny little flame births a regal forest fire,

The remotest nooks of her mind now a grand pyre. 

Her very being set ablaze with an inspiration so great,

She grabs a pencil before the sly flames can attenuate. 
Each word a drop; from her hand runs a river thence,

Fills the parchment before her; a happy turbulence. 

Only water can quench fire, the stanzas doth flow.

Untamed ripples dancing as her eyes begin to glow. 

Before she knows it, she’s the most unyielding General. 

Her army of sixteen before her merciless wrath grovel. 

Soldier out, soldier in; every line proportionate. 

This wordy patriot did it with rhyme and reason, yet. 

And now, at yet another christening she’s a Father.

An air of certitude prevails, as she sprinkles holy water. 

Content with her myriad roles, she smiles exhaustedly,

“Oh, you write poems?” Not at all; she lives poetry. 


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