I used to dance with you
my bobbysock stockinged toes
digging into your safe daddy-shoes.
While my fingers grasped your paws,
my pigtails kept the beat.
I never thought I'd see your legs,
crooked as the vines you cut, catch
on a hidden root. You landed gracefully,
a football faller from college days
before injury or me ever twinkled
in your eyes.
If you fall in the woods
and your little girl is there to hear,
do you make a sound?
Should she offer her tiny hands
even to brush off your back?
I remember watching you slip
in the mud of a winter's creek bank
a growing daughter's fear, learning
how to offer a helping hand, hoping
you weren't too proud to learn
you can always ask for the first dance.
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