Writings

Facebook Post, August 16, 2013

She could have been a month old today,
or yesterday or days before,
or three days more or yet a week beyond.

Instead she is always already every age
she ever could have been, and freely runs
the range, though young our window to her leans.

So are we all. We think ourselves
the day parade of steps we take.
She knows us, each, one’s dance.

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