Three Sixty Six Days of Magic

Life in the everyday appears a most ordinary hue, Too close to the eye piece, it’s easy to miss wonders in front of you. Letters weave into words, words stitch into lines, Frames into film. Magic, approves Eisenstein. If our book of pictures ran in years, We’d see two first, and then three in the next here. A new life, a new face, a new world right where we’re at - Your mother like a magician most majestic pulled a rabbit out of her hat. If our book of pictures ran in months or at a time two We’d see the great rope trick before us. Now, though, the magician would be you. Lying still at first. Next, sitting upright. Panache? A whole lot. Turn the page to see you take your first steps, standing taut. No matter which leaf we open in our book of pictures and memories What’s most plain, what’s clear as crystal to see - The most beautiful bit of magic yet is this clone, at once giant and small The best version of your mother, the best version of me, the best version of us all.

Second (to an Embrace) Words

Some day when you hold a brush, a pen, or a stylus

Or whichever grand nephew of the quill is in business I can picture you writing words to the next opera grand Draw a path to the universe inside your mind with a few strokes of your hand. Will you write of the Arab’s apprehensions towards Meursault’s intentions? Or detective cases led astray before a new-age Sherlock’s interventions? Will you write ruba'is or sonnets or plain and simple prose? On science, the earth’s many seasons, and why before the world froze? Will you chase after the mysteries of the mind Or weave a melody with a guitar you wind? Perhaps, you’ll learn a tongue exotic and quaint Or forsake all words written, say a thousand and paint. Whatever you do, I’ll be sure to strain my eyes, my ears, my heart to comprehend Even if I fail time and again, I won’t stop - my will shall contend. No matter who’s listening and who’s eyes are not open yet - My girl, each of your words is as special as the first ‘Papa’ you ever said.

(First) Lines for a Dot

She crawls in beauty, like the morn.
Or a flower pure and pretty, that knows not a thorn.
She’s the best of the bright, the dark couldn’t come close.
Her smile lights up the world, makes me wish the moment froze.
She came to us from a faraway land,
Speaks a language that we can barely understand.
Her tongue is too many eons ahead for us to try to dabble,
She’ll have to slow down for us, and start making sense of our babble.
I heard she was a giant, but she had to get around. 
So she deflated her bodysuit to no more than five pounds.
She carries magic each place she chooses to go,
A snap of her fingers, and there are wings on our boat.
All my friends ask me to teach my little girl all I’ve read.
But they don’t know, she’s raising her mother and me instead.