Daughter turned a year of weeks on Friday,
A year of Mondays, Tuesdays, Sundays.
Three hundred and sixty five Saturdays
All in what was only an opening act of a life.
Oh, god, you had no idea when you created
This world that would have to create you
You were involving yourself in quantifiable
Longing and loneliness, or did you? Count
The days a human wakes to being human
And consider how divinity had to wait
On a few tens of thousands of years, a few
Hundreds at least of generations to be born.
Body sat down at a cafe in Salt Lake City
A month to the day after failing at dying
And thought, here we are, us and our ideas
Of how this universe works or should maybe
And somewhere a child of ours is figuring
What best to ask for a seventh birthday gift.
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