Her Play

Vroom-vroom! Pushing a toy bus
she disturbs my thoughts’ quiet
with her prattle. I’d have lain
untroubled as a mule slipped
from the halter, tugging up the roots
of clover with their tangled clods
hung unmeaning, broken up
and shifting down my chin.
I would have missed seeing the day
intrude through the shutters, shining
here and there between her shoulders
and her golden hair, the light
as clear as language when she trails
the wandering current of her play
against the brightly patterned quilt
hung over the couch, its red and yellow
flowers and her milky skin as soft
as whispers in a bright communion.

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