Still shadows line the study; wind shakes
the shutters outside. The dust dares not move,
though I catch a ladybug considering.
The room I have left bare and bald, knowing
that stark surfaces can nourish the warmest
colors. Look, there, at this moment --
at least fourteen shades of fuchsia now fill
the vacant walls, and the place with the pond
appears glimmering with glimpses of starry
tortoise shells and alligator eyes.
Two and two, and two, two more
and mine are ten plus nix
plus sleepy flickers of infinite
infant eyes, fluttering between wild, mild marine
dreams and tiptoed steps into an abyss.
Most babies are illogical, but then
how would children be? Like gentle mice
and kittens leaping softly from their garden
knowing more of them than I will ever know
of she. The pond glistens as we row until at last
the shady side is reached. Her hair is like the afternoon,
her fingers delicate and slight, plucking daisies
almost like she could pluck stars out
from the night.
organ of criticism