He climbs up on the couch to read his book, 
first a knee, then a grab of cushion 
and he's there, by my side, ready to look 
at pictures he can name like Adam.

Sharing is its title. My mother nabbed 
it from her church so he could point out moon 
and hat, and even Grandma's comfy lap, 
and at the zoo-tiger, bear, and kangaroo.

But like all two-year-olds he's full of help 
and pulls the wrinkled pages from my hand 
and pretends to read the text himself.

Out of pre-memory, he shows me infant, 
and in sly tones I give him who he might 
be-independent, smart, and mostly right.
 
 

So although he can pile blocks ten high before 
they fall and proudly say, I did it, 
he knows he needs to share the book if we are 
going to read it, and thus he hands it

and its pictures back, as long as he can 
turn the pages with his impish fingers-
Share a sandpile, Share a smile-and his chance 
social graces as he tries to chime in words-

until we get to Jesus at his best 
in an aura of light in a manger, 
and even though I've neutralized the text,

there is a tone of recognition there, 
a joy he can't contain, as he smartly 
says, over and over, the word, baby.