Untitled reflection

She's nestled quietly in my lap, and I notice her legs,
at once thin, yet muscular.
Busy bruises scattered at intervals
in various shades of purple
mottle the otherwise smooth expanse
of peachy protection that, even at rest,
practically pulsates with the energy of a six-year-old.
This is just the beginning, I think,
and I grieve for her loss of innocence.