She is the careful hand that sorts the grain,
The quiet mind that calculates the rain,
A sketch of order on a chaotic page,
The steady rhythm turning youth to age.

Her eyes hold galaxies of list and plan,
A universe contained within a scan.
She sees the thread that others leave undone,
And weaves the fabric 'neath the waking sun.

Not cold, but clear—a crystal spring that flows,
Where every truth she touches, truly knows.
Her kindness is a practical, plain thing,
A blanket offered, or a song to sing.

She is the harvest, ripe and understood,
The keeper of the latent and the good.
In every flaw, she finds a chance to mend—
A loyal servant, and a perfect friend.

So praise her not for magic, nor for fire,
But for the grace of effort, and desire
To make the broken world a little whole,
And read the secret cadence of the soul.