says the three year old boy.
Spin in a circle and jump.
I totter behind, following
the curl of his hair, the dimpled hand
pointing the way, run this way.
There go a few familiar strands
of the DNA I so proudly carry---
Red hair. Imagination.
The falling down on the floor and screaming,
I don't claim that bit. Biting the sister:
not mine. Never mine.
Jumping high enough to reach
a nearby constellation of stars, yes.
Blazing with a corona of fearless beauty---
yes.
yes.
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