Find myself on the verge this morning
Of what fully I am not sure
But most definitely on the cusp 
    Of these watery eyes boiling over
            Into full release…
                     But if I succumb to their pressure…

No doubt they won’t cease

As I shuffled and hustled around, bellowing out commands, 
I forgot to really see you and simply listen to your feet dance
Each step taken with those tiny tan toes
Go from slow and dragging to heavy and bold

Each morning reminded how I am a terrible planner,
This morning again stating “god, Mary tomorrow do better”
“Hurry up,” “What are you doing?” “Come on!”
“Why aren’t your shoes on?” “It doesn’t take that long”

Smothering chants that visibly stifle her delight
Stop. Notice those eyes with precocious insights
Innocent freedom suppressed by adult oppression
Each moment existing to teach “the free” a lesson

One of those many curls bounced into your lashes
And I hurried to be the one to save you, as I swooped it away
Those round all-absorbing honey-brown eyes, splattered with flakes of gold,
Looked up at me, still carrying morsels of sleep,
Looking into me, she asks in her soft and slightly raspy morning voice,
“Will you put my hair up?”

We always meet here. This place of need. Connected by curls.
The curls neither of us can tame. Nor want to.
In tact ponytail, we rush to the car.
We did.
You and I.