Each year for your birthday,
I'll get you a hundred balloons,
each one a different color
for every kind of face you make,
and tie them together
with locks of my hair.

And every time you sing,
I'll give you a glass jar,
with a pop top
and golden lid,
so that I can capture
the sweet honey
that drips from your teeth
when you open your mouth.

And every time it rains,
I'll give you a new pair of rain boots
that squeak and thump
awkwardly
with each step,
so you won't be afraid of puddles
ruining your khaki pants.

And each and every time
the world has been cruel,
leaving no room for your balloons
or jars,
or puddles,
I'll be there with white chocolate,
to sweeten the bitterness of their sting,

and globe,
with thousands of poems
written on every sea
and continent
to remind you
that you mean the world
to me,
and that the world
is full of love.