she comes in slowly 

small round hands 

on the round doorknob

to tell me her stories 

and listen to mine

curled up in the bowl

of my belly and chest 

some long abandoned self

no, only her own 

indisputable being 

not me or mine

but she reminds me

of the known walkways 

picking corn flowers 

eating orange melon

joyfulness and exultation

we are learning to be the 

youngest our patterns 

picked apart at the center

every day a heart break 

that irritates our conscience 

what has been and more 

might be lost

we ask her what bird

she would be if any

a robin because 

they lay blue eggs 

not what to be 

but what to make 

from the earliest

years and days 

and when we rock her 

in our arms we

also see the sky