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.