Eight-years old
she talks to trees
and waterways
and animals
from man to mouse
Before she plays outside my house
She runs to greet the weeping willow
That droops its mourning branches
In majestic sorrow over the creek
To which I hear her say
Dear river
You look so pretty
In the sunlight today
It’s a creek, sweetie, I say and smile
I know says she but don’t you see
I call it river to make it feel
Important and bigger
She teaches me so much
I love her so
Grant me please
Half a score or more years
In which to watch her grow