With the dandelion crayon,
I fill in the speckled back
of the tree-frog. I do not
know what color he should be,
but my daughter has handed
me this crayon, and it doesn’t
really matter. Dandelion? Red?
Robin’s egg blue? The point
is to color with my daughter
on my lap, both of us slowly
moving our hands, breathing
together, and quiet. How simple
it is. The pleasure. The act.
The letting go of how things
should be. How easy it is
in this moment to make the frog
yellow—color of warmth, color
of weeds. What is true is that
I am holding her. What is true
is that she’s holding me. What
is true is that we do not get to hold on,
not really, to anything. Not to the girl.
Not to our thoughts. Not to our doubts.
Not our shoulds. Not our certainty.
And the feet, I make them gray.
And the sky I line with green.
And my girl scribbles pink
on the frog’s slender back.
There’s something freeing
and wonderful about not bowing
to the way that things should be—
like the color of the tree frog’s
bulging eyes. Or, if it is not
obvious yet, I am thinking
all morning of you and me.