"And down and down and down，"

    the toddler's mother sings

    as he clears every ledge.

    Midway we cross their path.

    In rain， the museum's steps

    loom 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 vaulted， 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.