"It's a beautiful day!" you say. And I agree.
Then you dance in circles around the wool rug,
creating a song to match the weather,
and when you reach the chorus:
"Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful day!"
you jump - arms lifted high, up and down.
You are pure praise, at your best,
a true name-reflection.
These days you are a ballerina.
And when I bought your pink, sparkly tap shoes for only $1,
your face was bright and wide the whole way home.
Once inside the house you pleaded,
"Can I wear them , Mama, can I?"
You've hardly taken them off since
(though they do not look like they could be
all that comfortable).
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