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
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.
Helen holds hands with thunderheads. It helps when she's weak in the knees, lightning running down abductors, running down bones. Even temple guards succumb to such days, soft as pillows - scarlet velveteen on silk sheets. Pink cyclamen bells the air, and Helen cut her traces. Bridget dreams the summer wind. Its susurrate moan rises in waves, swells with tides of sandalwood to chariot the night. She spins rhapsody around its howl, dawns a golden jet stream on spangled festoons of cirrus. Weak knees fly off with yellow wind, before Bridget stills the night. Sicily wets her lips with limoncello, quells the rabble of heartache, the clatter of waiting. She rings goblets like temple bells, makes a sound map for lost days. Her boat of pink sand brims in blood oranges and cyclamen. Lightning festoons the rabble, Sicily finds Helen’s hand.
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