Because I love you, whoever you are,
I call out, “Rule Number One!”
From the precipitance you have adopted—
tree, boulder, high bank above the lake,
you call back to me, “No Bleeding!”
And you do not bleed, at least today.
Because I love you, whoever you are,
I call out, “Rule Number Two!”
From that depth of the lake, the depth
almost above your head, you poke
your nose into the air and call back
“No Drowning!” And you don’t, today.
Because I love you, whoever you are,
I call out, “Rule Number Three!”
About to step into the poison ivy
to retrieve ball, frisbee, or arrow
you call back to me as you reach,
“No Scratching!” And you withdraw.
You know, at least for this time,
what rules direct the rules, and you
know that your job is to translate
what I say and create what I don’t say.
What I shout makes meaning for a minute.
What you think on your own creative
self sometimes keeps you from falling,
from drowning, from itchy agony,
and maybe from keeping someone else
from bleeding drowning, even scratching,
maybe because you stop to think and care.
Because we listen together,
I don’t have to explain or demand.
I don’t have to invent Rule Number Four.
You know it for both of us. Or, no,
you know it for the World of us.
