When the sun kisses my hair through the breeze cracks of a shade bearing tree, I feel beautiful.
The sun nor the tree care about how old I am, for one, if not both, have been here longer than me.
In this moment, I don’t need to reach for anything. I am just here, feeling warmth, and I know how to be.
This is my time, my golden age, my soft waves settling randomly, when I am most free.