To My Daughter: The Words You Say

The words you say
are like butterflies
or feathers.
They float in the air
in swoopy dances,
attracting attention.
Their colors and patterns
change with each new
appearance,
each word more intricate
and captivating
than the last.
 The words you say
show an unblemished
view of the world that
I only wish I could glimpse.
I am a Grown Up, though,
So I preserve your words,
petrified in a glass shadow box.
Tiny pins display them
with labels.

The words you say
make me want to do,
to set free
those words
and replay them,
dance to them,
slide down them,
gather them in my hands
and release them to the wind
like dandelion fluff,
only to chase them down again.
I want to breathe them in
and sing them out.
I want to plant them in earth
until they've stained my hands,
soak them in sunlight,
let them grow.

Then,
and only then,
I want to show them to
other Grown Ups
so we can remember
how to see,
and live,
and speak.