With thick sticks of chalk

pressed between her fingers

she draws circles on the driveway,

some loop around each other,

others float aloof beside the bordering lawn.

She hasn’t mastered square

or triangle but the unrelenting way

a thing spins back into itself

makes perfect sense to her.

Cross-legged on the blacktop beside her

I etch triangles, isosceles, obtuse,

three lines colliding, a shape

held together by the pressures

of connection.