The active child is, for our purposes,
Chaos refuting entropy.
Starbursts of astonishment, self-creating:
Bursting from her seamlets,
Going forth to conquer.
From her ninety-nine infinities
Populating her planet.
One and none makes ninety.
My lethal conditions,
My unappeased fingernail syndrome,
My afabricated blotting paper psychosis,
My case of turnip's scurf and lugwumps,
Fall off their get-well-soon cards
And forget themselves.
She cleos her patras and is empress,
Coming, like it or not.
She is life at the crescendo,
Her own firebird suite,
Her trademark now,
Her patent the burning moment.
She is her own one-woman motorbike gang,
On her titchy little three-wheeled plastic bike.
She is Miss Trophy Triumphant,
Miss Tomato Thief,
Mistress of the flower-stealing grin.
She is someone's daughter,
The one who continues,
The one who does not die.
She is mine.
She is the intolerable demand, the no-can-cope,
Forcing a larger existence,
Like it or not.
Caught in the incandescence of her expanding star
I have not the option to be cinders.
Fortunately, there is help.
Grinding up the steak was a great idea
For the delinquent daughter.
For this and many more
You know the score
A truly thank you.