Of the Essence

She swings. I don't stop her or hold her back.
Well, I do. I tell her to come in for dinner or
                                                    fraction practice.

Or I ask her to load the dishwasher and run it,
before she runs back outside to swing.

So, she does. She does not balk. "Yes, Mama,"
                                                    she says, and

like a reverse conjuring, I am out of her hair,
out of her brainspace. I want her to have space,
the gift of space, physical and emotional space.
                                                    And time. She is

nine, now. Her time—now—is of the essence.
Hours and hours she clocks in the clean air,
                                                    rocking to and fro.