Tiny Dancer

Layla's chubby little legs had not carried her around this earth very long or very far.
After all, she hadn't even reached the tender age of two yet.

Still, she had been dancing long before she stood upright.
Rolling, twisting, turning, keeping time to music in her mothers womb.

As a tiny infant, she bobbed her head to any beat that reached her ears.
Even if it was merely the tap, tap, tapping of a dripping faucet.

At the age of one, she experienced the ticking of a clock for the first time.
Her shoulders instantly became the pendulum, left, right, tick, tock, left, right, tick tock.

I don't know when she began dancing to the sound of the sun.
Surely it makes music that only Layla can hear because she does dance to it.

One day, she just lifted herself up onto her toes as graceful as a ballerina.
Toeing her way into the kitchen as though stepping onto a stage.

Pausing briefly in the center of a patch of sun that streamed through the window.
It's rays, arranging themselves like musical notes on the floor that only she could read.

Classically swaying in rhythmic time to the most beautiful music one would ever hear.
And only one would, only sweet baby Layla can hear the music of the sun.

Maybe it's her golden hair that the sun admires so well, that it would play just for her.
Whatever reaches her ears, when the rays kiss her skin must be magical.

For I have never been captivated or held spellbound by such beautiful, inaudible music.
Music so mystical, that it can only be interpreted by the feet of such a tiny dancer.