The Earth hath not borne anything as pure
As those beautiful feet that hath just embarked,
On the first of life’s many picturesque tours
Seasoned with tales of frolic and larks.
Trotting away from them, only to look back in jest,
Enough for each to declare claims of your attention,
Every compassionate heart here pours out its best,
When their labors of love earned their worthy pension.
What a pity it be to see you trip over to the rug,
What a relief to see you stand back in smiles,
What an honor it is when you choose my hugs,
What a joy to follow you for hours and miles.
No grammar as beautiful as his half-baked Babble
No dance as mesmerizing his unbalanced gait,
No story stands to captivate like his childhood’s Fable,
That the Creator hath authored through his parents’ slate.
An evening with a toddler has fueled the author to write these verses. Yet he knows for sure that the beauty of childhood will never be measured well enough by his limited power with words.
