``I have an idea,'' you say
to sprint down the hall.
I try to remember being so small
the hall was a place to run,
then listen as you rummage through
your room, tossing books from shelves
saying, ``That's not it ...'' and
then again ``that's not it....''
I marvel at your certainty about
which book to read next, or that
the way to count is ``one, two, six,''
or that the plastic watch you wear
says it's ``nine fifteen'' and how,
looking up, you ask, ``What does that mean?'
Your feet scurry back down the hall,
your eyes beam with delight
as you slap a book on my lap and say,
``Read this,'' climb onto the cushion adding,
``It's the one about Little Red Riding Hood, OK?
Isn't that a good idea?''
Sitting next to me, you place your small
hand in my hand - big like my eyes,
my ears, my mouth, my heart.