"And down and down and down，"

    the toddler's mother sings

    as he clears every ledge¹.

    Midway we cross their path.

    In rain， the museum's steps

    loom² like the Giant's Stairway

    to Guardi's Ducal Palace.

    "And up and up and up"

    is what I do not say

    as you stagger for balance.

    Once I'd scaled that summit，

    hunted over the crowd，

    and saw you below， holding

    two hot dogs and white roses；

    you vaulted³， took the steps

    two at a time， then three，

    and leaped to where we met.

    Your smile is broader now.

    You see more. On this day

    of wavering， we hear

    a Triton blow the horn

    where Giotto's Magi open

    hands that rise in air：

    up， and up， and up.