And not so terrible,
at least not yet and hopefully not ever.
However, the better part of reason's square
confines me in syllogisms, cause and effect
relationships, fallacies of garbled
talk, the utter barrenness,
or godlessness as Hundertwasser
would say, of straight line dominance.
But in this moment—the memory
of your birth—enough of reigning in
and Aristotle and textbook answers
in a cinder-block office;
enough of whiteboard tasks, routine
lunches, and computer glaze upending
my view of your wonderland—
that palace where even stuffed animals
find a voice and Little Boy Blue
rises out of his haystack, looks around,
and blows his horn until all of us
forever abandon sleep. Let your twoness
enter in with its undertow
and verbiage. Let the backward
sentences matriculate faster
than an incoming freshman.
Let the mind unfold its filter
of habit, environment, genetics, nutrition
at five in the morning or eleven
at night, and, Little One, pull on my tie,
hide my shoes, or hug my knees
in all your wobbly, tip-toeing ingenuity.
Let's promise each other
that logic's greed and the mechanics
of five-paragraph essays
won't sidetrack our imaginations
or keep them from what exists
beyond the next line, rule, or conclusion.
Please show me the speed
with which your mind can run.