This poem made me think of Atticus, and for that I love it dearly.
by Jesse Graves
We walked between the ponds at World’s Fair Park
the first night we knew something definite had hold of us,
conversations reaching not much beyond favorite bands,
least favorite jobs. We had not held hands.
Nothing existed of our daughter, not yet a nameless dream,
(It's short -- go read the rest here, at The Writer's Almanac.)
The round up is at TeacherDance.