The Sixth Tower

Happy birthday, Maddie!

Once, there lived a child 

who made a palace with her bare hands

and her song.

First, the ground. 

The base was sturdy, absolute, heavy,

stone and brick,

the beginning, the roots,

a first breath, a baby's cry.

A little bird spread the word, and soon,

she had friends coming from near,

and from far away.

They had gentle hands and rough hands,

kind smiles and hard, starving smiles,

whispering souls and bubbly hearts.

The first tower was a miracle.

Crushed pebbles were built up from the bottom,

layer by layer,

painstakingly,

each with her own little hands.

The world was not kind to her that year; 

it had enough to manage,

and there was still her castle to build.

She had been broken, torn from the dark,

and they had shouted things at her.

The first tower was made of sleepless nights and screams,

of new laughs and blurbles of nonsense.

But it was the first, and so it was beautiful.

The second tower was easier.

She had done it before, and her little hands worked from memory,

from dreams, sweeping dreams that came and gone in an instant

and left only forgotten footprints...

Sunshine had blessed the third tower.

Fairy dust and daisies,

she had been crowned princess of her kingdom that year.

Those who came before her didn't step down;

she rose up and joined their ranks instead.

Who ever said a kingdom only needed one ruler?

Ah, the storms of the forth tower.

Remember the thunder? 

We thought they would crack the earth.

And the lightning,

they were sure to burn down the sky

and rain cinders down

on her little hands.

And do you recall the times when the sun broke through?

I think she learned something about life that year.

The fifth tower was also a beginning.

That was a year of sending her off,

of independence and leaving,

but not really leaving, not yet.

It was constructed of painted wood,

rainbows of colors plastered

into one winding cylinder

that reached to the skies.

And now, it is that time again. 

A new tower, about to be built.

She lit the previous tower on fire,

and with her little, delicate breath,

she blew.

And as it went out, into nothingness,

they cheered. 

The entire world, the sun,

the stars and the grass and the baby lions,

the glint in his eye and the gasp from her throat,

the old crow,

the ripe, red apples on the apple tree,

the fading blossoms,

the hundred-year old maples.

Happy birthday, they all said. Happy birthday.