They call you Monkey,
and it fits
better than any name
I could have chosen.
Not because you climb—
though you do.
Not because you run—
though you never seem to stop.
But because you greet the world
with both hands open,
ready to swing into whatever
adventure is waiting.
You are scraped knees
and muddy shoes.
You are loud laughter
echoing through forests.
You are the child
who reaches for branches
instead of watching from below.
One day,
your feet may stay
closer to the ground.
But I hope your heart
never does.
Stay wild, Monkey.
The trees
already know your name.
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