Math and Topography

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Math and Topography

Today plus four more
equals my kid’s 
eighth birthday.

I teared up at three,
wrote her a different poem at five.

At eight, it seems
I’ve learned to delight
in all this going on, a little.

Eight year olds have
excellent senses 
of humor; they play games
they make art.

There is still a pause
when she decides to sit 
with you or her friend on the bus,
and crushes are as innocuous 
as left behind games
of make believe.

I’m finding at eight
we like to talk movies and books
and she’s memorized 
her first lines of 
Neruda (for a dollar.)

At eight, the seeds
grow at super speeds—
There is a risk and responsibility in that.
New parts of her surface and retreat in accord.

“Can we go to the Nutcracker?”
“Can you carry me?”
“Can I get some gum?”

These are the sounds 
of eight. Curious, cautious
with the world endlessly
sprawling out in front of her

A horizon ever further in the distance.  

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