Awkward on the dance floor 
at a party with ballerinas.
Tree stump.

Sturdy workhorse.
Also, absent-minded page-turner 
and sacred mudra-maker.
Maybe they envy your freedom.

You appear agreeable enough 
when you stand up straight,
but still— always in opposition,
made for a life of tree-swinging, grasping
and now texting.

It was you who taught me Right from Left,
made me feel powerful as a girl,
how you wriggled away when wrestling
to escape being crushed.

And in your sly resistance, 
determined to write your own name,
you knuckled that pencil 
as if it were a life preserver.