Do all things come into being the same way poems arise,
out of nothingness?
I see my daughter and praise our universe of infinite, separate things.
I follow her mind as it wanders down strange staircases she makes,
painting new worlds insider herself,
running with them out into the day,
scattering them everywhere.
She’ll share her stories with you, whether you want to hear them or not.
Suffering bruises, small wounds, she heals easily now, already having learned that way.
I think she’s decided, after some great time of braiding tall grass into crowns,
that growing up might not be such a bad thing,
someday.
If she arose out of emptiness,
the great fullness of possibilities,
with her strong hands and weaving ways,
then something profoundly glorious must be right with that place.
I will visit the memory of the wish of her,
it surely must still be there,
the first words of the first lines of a life waiting to be written,
like poems that wait for me in the place I thought was barren
but turned out to be full of radiant beings
waiting to be born,
given the chance to fly,
just like her.
