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I almost named you Fool
For your capriciousness,
Your chasing phantoms across the kitchen floor,
The silliness of youth
(Instead I named you Golden—
      I have never regretted that decision:
      For your hair is gold,
      Your eyes are gold,
      Altogether royal and regal).
But even now in middle age
You entertain like some court jester—
      Leaping, bounding,
      Somersaulting,
      Bouncing, leaping,
For no reason
Other than the sheer pleasure of it.

Funeral March Portraits In the window downstairs