This morning after breakfast,
in the voice of a busy carpenter
or a wizard in search of a wand,
my daughter asks to borrow a hammer.
My what for goes vaguely unanswered,
my shrug taken as yes. She grabs it
from the toolbox, her thin arm yanked
down by the weight.
She pulls leaves off bushes, piles them
on the stump of our old cherry tree,
and hammers them on a piece of paper
according to a system established
by ancient astronomers
or insane mathematicians.
Later, I find the paper on my desk
patterned with lush powdered green.
Tomorrow she may invent the wheel.
Today I gently rub the dust of my bones.
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