Daughter,
in your 29th year,
you are defined by none but you,
and yet the people here around you today
pump gold and jewels through your veins,
clothe you in cloaks of wisteria and jacaranda spring blossoms,
and caps of Andean moss.
The winds change direction but you're steady against them,
fiercely baring your teeth at Scylla and Charybdis
as you steer beyond the shores of conformity.
Look back at the white ash,
look down at the running stream,
and look up at the half moon.
Love, Mum.
31 December 2017