Ready, by Nicholas Whitehead

Poised and ready,
He stood on the back of the couch,
Quite high when you take into account
The boy is only two.

But he is ready:
He’s had two whole years to practice.
As I walk into the room and see him,
He leaps.

A smile wraps up his face,
His eyes wide and aware.
I cannot be swift enough
To stop him or even hope to catch him,

But as I said
He was ready,
Born that way in fact.
Doc said it was quite strange but indeed true.

With such grace I might never see again,
Smooth as an Olympic gymnast
His feet find the floor
And he dashes into the kitchen.
For one second
My heart beat a thousand times,
No, a million
And wore itself out.

My boy
I can only hope
That the day you run short of ground
You have grown wings.

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