A Little Child Leading

Rocking Chair

``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.

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