She is five
and the world makes
perfect sense.
All things are servants
to her curiosity,
adults are her
audience.
We secretly covet
her approval
which she dispenses
and withholds
with alarming
poise.
She pulls me aside
she has composed a song
on the piano
a recital
can I gather the adults
now.
She plays it for me quickly
the high notes
she tells me afterwards
are when the girl loses her favourite toy
the low notes
are when she is eaten
by a large and angry
dog.
I tell her it is wonderful
very dramatic
perhaps she could consider
telling the audience the story
before she plays.
But it would ruin
the surprise.
She walks off
to gather the adults
herself
and I can almost taste
my fall
from grace.