Bury the Pace

It wasn’t supposed to go
this fast, but it
is and so I’ve accepted
the air pulsing by
as you run,
that one sharp
ridge sticking out
to remind me
you’ll be even more
self-sufficient soon
with your treaded
socks and your stand
and grab and your
barbequed salmon
and tap water.

When I noticed we had
sped up, it was too late
to ask you to slow up
and even if I had, you
wouldn’t know how to
free up that space.

I’m sure it hurts to grow.

You, with your one tooth,
your baba and goo,
your total belief in my
repeated appearance,
the inflammation that mocks
you as you sleep.

It’s all underground now,
past us and through
the roots and the bugs
and the bees. The hopeless
and heavenly trees
stand above, waiting
for a crystallized glimpse
of the precious fuel
that makes happiness go.