Sunday, May 25, 2008

Swaddling Babies

Best swaddle our babies in veery song suspended on a breeze.
Light meets day in its bud, gently uncoil each hour.
They expect warm milk and kisses, we savor their sweet perfume.

Find children as fresh earth, as body of amber clay.
Layer on layer, by moments etched, we mold them home.
Best swaddle our babies with apricot sunrises that open into May.

The feast is not in the kettle when elbows dimple the cloth;
only picnics of stories so satisfy like desert rain.
They expect dragons swarming the castle, we savor paper cranes.

Decades unfold a family like an aspen clone claims its slope -
pushed open with birth and marriage, deepened in woe.
Best swaddle our babies in butterflies laced in lucky saffron.

Waking hours hold the key to Darwin explorations; we’ll set
their brilliant minds free, feathering daydreams with angels.
They expect to track a creek forever, we savor safe returns.

Raising children pours like sand for a painting, every grain counts;
they’re not ours, they belong to the water and the wind.
Best swaddle our babies with sundogs hanging in the summer sky.
They expect warm milk and kisses, we savor their sweet perfume.

Daphne's Peace

Why bury your wildness?
Honor that rakish salvation
from soap and Jane Austin.

It’s neither silk purse nor
sow's ear. Why bother with
some chase across Mongol steppes?

Tunnel worm holes into
a ninth dimension later.
For now study your own

notions of life and duty -
how easily they fill with
dust like puddles in August.

When you neglect the beveled
lips of crystal framing you
with feral kin, your light

bends obliquely from this
nebulous sky. When you
giggle madly as a pod

of girls in skirts scarlet and
billowing, veils swing apart.
Holding patience like April

holds spring, this good earth desires
your seed and feathered song;
desires timid fingers

to probe iron laced fissures
that map your fault line. Follow
the dark thread home; nose to wind,

chase sanguine urges. Crave
the Golden Salmon roasting
on hot coals. The best morsels

wait for your hungry tongue.
It sings to your wildness.
Don’t bury her again.