But I do know a good poem when I read one. And this one made me understand in a flash why people write poetry — which happens to me sometimes, but not very often.

It landed in my email late last week.

“i wrote a poem about your kid in my writing project, which ended today,” my friend Trish wrote.

I could write 100 blog posts and not come close to the essence of my kid — not in the way Trish does in a few lines.

Remember the name Tricia Parker, folks. Seriously. She’s pretty freaking amazing. And kind enough to let me share her poem with you.

Sophie, who is eight but crawls

Sophie, who is eight but crawls
onto my lap, toddler tiny, all easy,
agile hip flexors, smudgy glasses
transform her almost lilac eyes
into fishes trapped in bowls.

Sophie, who is eight, eats her beans
and rice, and asks why?
every time I suggest
put your napkin here
move your drink away from the edge
try a spoon instead.
Why? Sophie recognizes these suggestions
for the corrections they are.
Why? She wants to know.
So you don’t make a mess.

Why?

And then, tell me a story about
when I was a baby. Tell it now.
Wait until we finish eating.
No! Tell it now,
Sophie insists, her feet in the smallest
pink, sparkly moccasins,
crawling into and out of my lap
insisting fish-bowl wide-eyed.
No. Tell me now.

I need to think about it.
She shakes her head, watching me.
No. You don’t.