You are the breeze that stirs the grass beneath my feet, the taste of spring, lain oh so sweet, upon my tongue. You are seven summers, seven in all, and though your blood and bone are broken both, still yet you span the furthest reaches of the sun. You are the leaf that spirals to the ground, the flower unclosed, then closed again, the bare brown earth of winter's sleep. You are a child forever more, yet how can you be young again when you knew things a child should never know. And so cruel the beasts that took your life away, stole from you each and every precious day, maiming your life before you learned to run beneath the blue and gold of sky and sun. To them you were a small, unprofitable butterfly, an irrelevance that briefly glowed then passe on by, and thus it fell they could not even start to comprehend the love imprisoned in your heart. But now, as God in his compassion gives you eternal life, eternal breath, for them, nothing is certain, only their certain, awful death. For Baby P, who I wish had been mine.