See, you still fit in my lap,
like balled up yarn, knotted tight
though strands of arms and legs
dangle hopelessly.
Already with feet as big as mine,
I assure you, at thirteen,
we were all one thumb too many.

Do you remember Crazy Love,
and how we would dance in the kitchen
(my secret weapon to get your help with the clean-up)?
You were easy enough then to spin and dip,
more malleable before boys
and rage-slammed doors.

But for now, you’re a glass-smacked wren
waiting to shake the daze.
Still harder to predict
than a feather in a funnel cloud.

I’ll  keep my hands soft and open,
hold you like a bird,
offer up the chance
to fly away.