Poppa Says it Better

Your poppa wrote this two days ago. I think it sums you up.

My daughter is a meditation.
She is a part of the world; she is in it, of it, she is it.
Every moment is a vocal ooohhh! And she reaches and grabs, grasps, pulls.
She pushes and throws.
My daughter will howl for fun. Gargle and tickle at the newest sound she's ever heard, her own. With a wave, she will ignore it all and is lost in a thicket of tiny grass leaves and an acorn.

And then it is the sky, its unending blueness, no detail. That is all. Until there's something stuck to her shirt, breakfast? A dog over there, individual hair, soft, so much everywhere, each so many colors. And now another child on a bike, fast. Where am I?

Mom, milk, warm. Now! Gone! Oooohhh! Something hard, uniform, concrete. Ughh, flip! up? Papa, laugh, warm enough, time to move. "Beibeee," point. Wave. Wait, something on his shirt. So many threads, tiny stitches, millions. The breeze, a sound, wind-voice. Oooohhh! Music. Up and down, I go.

Now, again my turn to talk. AAAaaahhkkPaa! And a commanding flourish, open hand salute to Discovery! Smile.