It’s Valentine’s Day, and the person below is officially 12 & 1/2.
This poem was written in celebration of him.
the boy is all cheeks.
he sits on a slope, fingering the grass
along the edges of an old flower box, grass
the mower blades always miss.
tall green spikes with tips
still intact and pointing upward, stretching
toward sky, the daffodils open
their yellow mouths, lean in toward the boy
only rocks understand.
he is speaking of his contentment,
telling the triangular lupines about his day:
his pancakes at breakfast,
his discovery about doors (that they open
and close), about the milky smell of his blanket, or
how right it felt to be held
the hour before. it is a moment
without the crunch of car tires, a moment
without demand. no one needs
to be fed or wiped or comforted. it is a moment
without clutter, no toys on the floor,
no books needing to be stacked.
nothing to straighten or fold. it is a moment
to keep. the boy is mine.
the world is purple flowers.
Do you celebrate half-birthdays?
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