She moves like the wind, and kisses the sun.

She moves like the wind, and kisses the sun.

Falls like a dry leaf, and laughs on the run.

She could cry like a river, and swim in its sea.

She could march across the desert sand; she could, hold the key.

Like the finger stretched, far upfront, to know where the wind blows,

Perhaps she’d try the other direction, towards the mountains where it snows.

And once there, by a little lake, she’d rest for a while.

She’d lay her camp, walk around, but all within a mile.

And under the stars, she’d lay awake, as the quiet winter blooms,

The cold would probably sting her, but she’d sleep bereft of gloom.

Come the morning, she’d stretch, ready for the day. 

She'd pack her things, leave a few, she did enjoy the stay.

Back home, to where it all started, she'd return soon.

A few old stars would be hard to find, but she would still spot the moon.

The next summer would be gone, those would be some raw sunny times.
Come autumn, she's still walking, and her story still rhymes.