Claire

So today's second poem: last night I got to hang out at the lively abode of my friend Weave, including an extended period of play with her five year old, Claire. This is a poem about that.

Claire

She looks into your face

until you look back...

and into your eyes until

she sees the pupils widen

as you think, "My God,

what a beautiful child."

Satisfied that she's been

properly acknowledged as

part fairy princess and

part Queen, she says. "let's play."

And so, under her spell,

you do.

She is firmly in command:

"You play with the horsey now.

Now I will play with the horsey."

She lets me wear her green tiara,

but only for a little while.

It is hers, after all.

When she's not looking,

I let a few tears come to my eyes

for the day when some evil soul

questions her confidence and

refuses to see her beauty.

You are the rarest of rare creatures, Claire...

a child self-possessed and unafraid

of the power your charm can command.

Please don't change.

The world needs you to look it in the eye

until it acknowledges your beauty.