Seven

Lucky you.

You only turn seven once.

One, two.
Buckle your shoe.
Three, four.

God, I loved four.

And now you are seven so fast.

I once heard that the body
completely replaces itself every seven
years.   If that is so,
tomorrow you will no longer
have any of those first cells we shared.
The surprise of you
still here,
in every smile.

The surprise of you,
still here
in every question
about gestation,
and germination,
and gratitude.


When you are seven,
how old am I?

In this lifetime
or the next,
I am more
than seven
and less than
infinity
inside all
your love.