My daughter is climbing a rope
hand over hand, to the top
of the gym and the heat of the lights
dazzling the eyes into blindness.
My daughter is fearlessly climbing
and oh, for the joy of her motion
for all things that move and that change.
No butterflies pinned to the wall,
no dragonfly captured in amber
can rival the sight of her—climbing.
Perfection is change, oh my darling,
touching the ceiling and laughing and waving.