I love this poem by Margaret S. Mullins.
Over Halloween, I spent some lovely time with the grandkids. It is amazing how much Neve (20 months) is speaking, the way she picks up every word around her. Because Nate is autistic, he had a few words, and then they all disappeared as the autism took him away from the world we live in somewhere else that he no longer shared with us. With intense therapies, he is regaining his use of language.
In this poem, Margaret Mullins captures the wonder of hearing words come from your little one:
She is two, and words fly in and out.
Verbs tumble and spill,
pronouns get sorted and stored
as she scuffles through dry leaves,
pigtails coming undone.
Me roll down hill higher.
Sounds and concepts swirl and are pulled in,
rearranged, tied together
and sent sailing back out
as she covers her Hermie doll with pine needles,
tucking her in with a kiss.
Go sleep now, Hermie. I ride merry-go-chicken. Oh, man.
Little room for nuance, little need;
subtlety will come later, with secrets.
For now, present tense trumps participles
as she climbs back up the tunnel slide
and corkscrews back down, long legs leading.
Wheee! Me want more olives. Run home now, OK?
She grabs words, flips them over, tosses them back
and folds them into her fantasy play
as she points at a garbage can and announces solemnly
that she lives there. Then she laughs and dances away
into a field of adjectives.
Hermie cool baby. Me love pink Hermie.