A Poet is Born

Sitting on the floor of the living room,

Her back is to me,

Little hands strumming

An out-of-tune guitar

I hear her whispering words,

I cannot hear. 

My curiosity is too much

I peak over her shoulder

Seeing an open book

Of Shel Silverstein poetry

She flips through the book

Finding the perfect prose

Picking up the guitar with purpose

Fingers start plucking the strings

Holding the book open with her big toe

She recites the words

To a poem about a

Boa Constrictor

I am in awe, frozen in this moment

Witnessing this adorable instant

I watch her head down in concentration

Her voice rises with each line

Projecting while tickling the strings strong and proud

Her head moves to the chaotic rhythm she is creating

Bobbing up and down, moving side to side

The music gaining momentum,

Her zeal rises as she

Speaks the words,

Getting louder and louder

All of a sudden

Magic happens,

The guitar no longer

Sounds out-of-tune

As I watch her 

transform in front of me

Words become lyrical,

The melody of the guitar draws me in

I watch her move her body

To the pleasing beat

She has created,

Words flow out of her mouth

She reaches the end the poem

A last strum of the guitar in a grand finale 

The notes still floating  

Throughout the room

She turns around to me and says

Mommy, I love poetry