Julia, your joy is catching.

I am catching your joy as you throw it around the room, skipping

toward the day, toward this particular morning and the frost

that is trying so hard to be snow.

Today, the first day of your 8th year,

harmony is born in you. The music you hear

is the world singing you.

You are named after your great-grandma, Julia.

All that I love about her is in you.

Her farm, her knitting.

The home of her.

But you are your own home, Julia.

You live in your own body,

graceful, strong.

When you first arrived

you lived in mine, and I loved you

from the inside.

Now I love you from across the table,

across the playground, across.

How much I love you is a farm, a family, generations.

Julia, you are an extraordinary carer of guinea pigs.

An extraordinary carer of all creatures. You are

Un girly.

Un squimish.

Un afraid to dig into the world.

Dressed in dirt and worms, you dig in.

Today my new seven year old, I wish to wrap you

in feathers (not to help you fly, you already know how to fly)

but to keep you warm while you explore the frost.  

Helping it become what it really wanted to be,

in your hands, snow.