The small body of a child
holds the power of a Time Lord
before he’s learned of clocks and calendars.
Time moves around him like a breeze around a tree–
it ruffles his hair, bends his weaker branches,
but doesn’t knock him over.
Mother’s time works differently.
always late, always rushed,
too many laters, not enough nows.
He moves as slow as a sloth
as he speeds around the room
doing nothing and everything.
Others say to let him
have his Peter Pan youth
without charging into responsibility.
They don’t mention how impossible
it is for a full grown woman to unlearn
her ticking clock.
I pull him by the hand
into my dashing structure
of meetings and dates and hours.
He learns the leaves fall in October,
school starts at eight,
and birthdays come but once a year.