A little girl in linen white, With lace like whispers, soft and light, A bow so long in chestnut hair, That dances free in open air.
She climbs the hill where shadows play, And gathers acorns brown as clay. Her basket hums a quiet tune, Beneath the golden afternoon.
The pine trees sigh a fragrant breeze, That stirs the grass and bends the trees. Her curls take flight, her dress does twirl, As sunlight spins to lace and pearl.
Oh, may she stay just as she seems— A fleeting dream in dappled beams, Where earth and sky in whispers blend, And childhood’s magic never ends.
