She walks in starlight, woven from the moon’s soft sigh,
A symphony of seasons held within her eye—
Spring’s blush, winter’s resolve, autumn’s amber flame,
Summer’s fierce radiance in the whisper of her name.

Her voice, a lullaby that tempests learn to keep,
Rooted deep where ancient rivers carve their secrets steep.
She bends but never splinters; in her scars, truth grows—
A thousand stories etched where grace and grit compose.

She paints the dawn in fingerprints of patience and resolve,
An orchard of small kindnesses where sorrows dissolve.
Her laughter spills like honey, her tears a salted sea,
Each one a tide that molds the shores of what it means to be.

A sculptor of tomorrows, she kneads the clay of hours,
Plants galaxies in footsteps where others might see flowers.
For she is both the wildfire and the hearth that guards the night—
The paradox of tenderness and unrelenting light.

So here’s to her, the architect of dreams we dare to breathe,
The alchemist who turns our ache to amber, grief to sheen.
No constellation holds the weight of all she’s yet to frame—
For she is not just special. She’s the cosmos, spelled by name.