I try to place the cap on my head
but find that it's too small.
My fumbling hand finds reason;
its size mischievously transformed
to fit your little dome. Thirty six years
on your seven-year crown. Mid October,
with it's grays and browns, warms
to Indian Summer, almost green
in the sun of your wide eyes.
Some while ago your brothers stood
shocked at the announcement of Spring--
the year's first robin, suddenly alighting
in your hair. Last Fall as we drove
through the forest’s confetti,
in our own private parade, you told me,
"The leaves are notes." Written to the earth,
you said. "But people pick them up
and most of them, are never read."
David J. Bauman © 2004