He dances frequently with abandon,
likes to shimmy his behind
His hair all tends to fly away,
never staying where assigned
He chooses colors oddly
when taking crayons in hand
Sky is often purple
and pink his choice for sand
The things he'll eat have limits,
pretty much pizza and hot dogs and chicken
What kid won't eat pasta?!
Yeah, he's one, for instance
He talks and talks and talks and talks,
Good God, it never ends,
As if his brain types away all night
and with morning light hits "send"
And he sings a lot throughout his day
It's an opera - his life -
An aria of the mundane
with crescendos for highlights
His laugh can be infectious
"Tickle me," his battle cry
And when your fingers finish
his cackle turns swooping sigh
He's taller than his peers
all skin, sinew and bones
Not so much as a trace of fat,
and muscles all postponed.
Though I love my children very much
His sisters both, and he
There's something about this firstborn boy
that's a little special to me
Perhaps it's that we almost lost him
five years ago today
when he slipped from womb to delivery room
and his palor from pale to gray.
I doubt it comes from manly pride
(take a look at him in those antlers)
No, I suspect it's something else
that makes him my enchanter.
If I met him on the street
or struggling on a swing,
a complete and total stranger
unrelated at all to me,
I still believe he'd take me in,
smile and win me from the start
It's some magic thing in his perfect soul
which levers up one's heart.
Not a thing in the world I wouldn't do for him,
and none of it would repay what I owe
So Happiest of Birthdays to you my son
You've five candles for wishes, now blow.
Happy Birthday, Arlo.
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