By Jen Hunt, from the archives, 1/9/2012
You joined the world red faced and wild
A bouncing bag of playful child
At one, in Aunt Nat’s pool, Mom found
Your craft capsized; your head faced down
At four, circling the flat, donut in hand
You sliced your head on a rocking chair band
At five, when catching frogs on the dock
Your tumbled bottom snagged a rock
At six engaged in dusk bike travels
You flipped yourself chin-first on gravel
At seven, when great grandmothers’ funeral had ended
The kitchen counter your head dented
At nine Pop Warner padding failed
Your thigh bruised and your brave nerves paled
At ten in grandma’s kitchen landing
All down her staircase you fell ka-banging
I wish you, Son, more lives than a cat
You’re almost through with nine, at that!
I sure hope when you turn eleven
God keeps you safe from then till heaven
