These are the steps
Your laughter stumbles upon every morning
When I chase you out of bed
And race you to the daily paper,
Freshly out of print.

Your voice is rolling down the staircase
Like a flock of ballerinas,
Warming the marble tiles with their pirouettes,
Waking up the yard from its dewy mourning.

The sounds of your giggles
Bounce one from another like beings of aether,
Playfully ballooning towards the horizon,
Sweetening the smell of the autumn's burning fields,
Rounding the stiffness of the ancient jagged peaks.