She paints anime characters.
She learns Japanese to name them.
She knows naming is the first human occupation.
She could speak volumes before she acquired words.

Outside, cradled between the elms, Jupiter rose 
above the horizon, and I called my daughter to see 
if she could see his tiger orange stripes 
and shining moons. 

Only two, she tip-toed to the telescope stalking 
with expectant pursed lips—and stretching up

couldn’t spy in the eyepiece.

Lifting up on a stool, she declared 
she had it, knew

just what to do,
the frosted green grass hugging her shoes,

and entered the house
to make up the planet that night

using two pieces of construction paper
and scissors.