Her posture holds her power. She is upright and walks with momentum.
Head held high she knows where she is going.
Her hair falls in her eyes and the wind misses not a beat as it relocates it on her cheek.
If her face was marred she would still exude beauty.

The fabric on her body was made to fit her curves.
The shoes on her feet mold to her step.
So strong. So sturdy. Like the mighty oak in the forest.

It happens to even her though. She misses a step.
She falters and fears the impending fall.
She is so strong though, how can she fall?
Her strength is just out of grasp. What does she reach for?
Her eyes turn downward; her lips grasp a breath. A sigh. To soothe her body.

She’s not panicking. Because she can’t.
She is the Oak Tree. She does not bend, she can not break.
She must say strong. Stronger than the falter. 
Because if she doesn’t. Who will hold her?

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