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November 11, 2011


Second Birthday

Two is the age

of my first memory.

My mother’s green robe

around her like a coat

as I lifted stubby fingers

into the air.


I taught that to you–

how to use your thumb

like a wing, closed.

Two fingers,

a butterfly.


You, more than anyone,

have shown me what I’m made of.


My daughter, I have so much

to tell you about the women

you come from,

so much to say

about love.


Put your fists up.

this is how we hold them,

tight. Like armor, they

cover our hearts.

But when we fall into Love,

our bodies flare like trees

in autumn;

our leaves burn red,

like all the curls of your hair.


Happy Birthday, baby girl!

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