When I taught my son to read,
rather, when he grasped the written word
his lips pursed so slightly in time
with the crunch of his brow
And his eyes registered each character
churning and bouncing inside his head,
like atoms dancing -
as a Gentleman and his fair Lady,
bowing gracefully to the other
before a waltz.
I do not recall hearing words
fly from his mouth,
yet saw behind his eyes
trapeze artists leaping across synapses,
jolting ancient clocks to spark
holding ages together,
strands of DNA.
Nothing more than the woolen scarf
I once wrapped snugly around his chin
before we ventured out
to make snow angels.
© Susan Marie
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