Crossing the Days

My son's been learning time: big hand

and little, powers of sixty

and of twenty-four, the slow semaphore

of days. He's brought home paper plates

from kindergarten, arrows pointing

at his favorite hours. So far

the face of every clock has smiled.

And before we read to sleep each night

he crosses off another square

on the calendar above his bed,

counting down to Christmas or to nothing

in particular, sometimes just a line

he draws uphill or down, check marks

like the ones his teacher leaves

on sheets he's filled with capitals

and lower cases, other times a pair

of thick lines like the crossed bones

on a pirate's flag, an X

as if to mark the treasure buried

in some ordinary week,

no day yet a cross to bear.