Words My Daughter Knows at 18 Months

Before mama came P
shouted in celebration
not of dirty diapers
but of food
and her pincer grasp.
Peas she picked up
one
by
one,
eating slowly,
mindfully.
Her hunger grew,
pan she wanted,
never bread.
 
At night we read.
With discovery
comes uncertainty,
words joined
to indefinite
articles,
a book always
abook.
 
Outside
we explored.
Col, she said, cold.
We walked winter
loops through the park
where the dogs
never barked bow-wow
but guau guau.
 
Two languages
she formed
two paths
that did not meet.
Walk, never
andar,
we were aquí,
never here.
 
Then each path widened,
té and tú,
toe and two,
tapa, papa, cama,
boo-boo, baby, bye-bye.
Until one day
vamos and go,
the paths converged.
Unlike Frost,
she travels both.
 
Traveler, wrote Machado,
your footprints are the path.
My daughter's words
her steps.
Today she wants
more and más.