Which makes her Mama cry,
And smile, because she knows
She was supposed
To be at least an Eryn,
But probably so much more.
Erynn breathes in average air,
Exhales without a (seeming) care,
But poetry flows and dances,
Taking daring chances,
Leaps and rolls off her tongue.
With her hand, she touches canvas
Mixing shades and colors in sensual bliss
Orange Girl, Pencil butterflies,
Whales and seahorses, sharing eyes
Come to life with a sweep of her brush.
My sweet poet, with a painters touch
It’s overwhelming to me that such
A magical and talented life that begun
within my body, is now twenty-one.
Happy Birthday Sweetie! I love you!