Building Blocks

Your sister says "a stack." Your teacher says "fine motor skills."
The editors at Parents say "a strong portfolio."

"Awareness" comes to mind, and "diligence" seems apropos
Perspective on the strength successive sessions will instill.

Although your lips have formed the bases of a verbal life,
The letters carved thereon are merely undistinguished shapes.

So many things occur across the blurry lush landscapes
Of moment, and we rush to save each one as precious, rife

With meaning more than these obsessed parental reveries.
No single image held over the chasm cut by time

Will serve as keystone for an overarching theme, but I'm
Convinced no clearer blueprint's drawn for building memories.

Herspective

It hurts my knees but I don't mind
Squatting to remind myself of you.
With so much standing in your way,
And crowding out your view, to huff
And fold your arms despairingly
And pout out loud seems reasonable enough.

To want things only half within your reach
Each simple seed of craving
Struggles to find purchase
From the lurching sponsorship committee:
Roll our eyes, slurp our lattes,
Part our ears from cell phones otherwise affixed
And answer, "Well, we'll see."

Not really, though, not much.
If we'd squat more often
To this fifty 'cent perspective
We might soften our rejective clutch
On age, and size, and rushing to be tall,
And recall: we do appear up here to have it all.

Motion at the Museum

The camera lies:
When you move I see you snap clear
The circus red blue and orange
No match for your ecstatic ruddy cheek
Baubles fall in time past your swirl
As you climb the upslide

The camera's eye
Froze on the smiler behind
Though he may, posing, have falsified his moment

Truer still may be the deepest pouter
Clutching what he has got tight
Letting "left out" trump his right to play
To let go the car and watch it fall its path
You care not, or else for naught
For you will make your choice to stay in motion
I will let you go
And I will see you through