Untitled

May 3, 2003

The very first words are sprouting
like the very first buds on the trees.
The child is finally picking it up
and now talks once he wakes until
he is tired and can only scream.
In the light of morning,
the happy delight of his chatter
is the sort of reward to expect
in return for the fatigue,
the selfless sacrifice of
all the many, latest and greatest
Things that there are to own,
or even the offerings of time
that once was there for me to read
all of the books there are to be read.
Instead, I find myself gathering
every little "Good job!" and "Where is it?"
like diamonds to the rest of the world.
I plant every memory of "oh, Mommy,
are you okay?" into the bed of my mind
as another might do with advanced
vocabulary that will further their
own pressing need for knowledge.
All those things I never knew I needed
like little hands grabbing my leg,
like the triumph of potty training,
like the book of his every first
now kept like the finest treasure
that I never imagined existed.