scours for rainbow sprinkles scattered by the
dimpled hand of the boy, now sleeping
in the room with the window that faces the yard.
The squirrel has an itch, or a need to be met, winds up
its hind paw like a pinwheel and scratches its fatted back.
There are enough many-colored flecks
in the grass to allow for a moment's relief.
16 feet above, the boy, head turned to the window,
curls his toe around a rung on his crib (he is still in a crib
even though he is agile enough to climb out of it.
There is time still. The comfort of the cage has yet to subside.)
A thin track of saliva burns its way down his chin.
It will have dried by the time the shades are lifted.
2 comments:
Thank you! I am trying to write something each day. This is totally raw material, sketches really, but that's OK. I feel better when I write.
Sometimes those 'raw sketches' shine without polish, as this does.
I was told once how important it is for the writer, to close their words (with words) that remain in the reader's mind (long after they have read them). I have been reading (and enjoying, muchly) your babies and see you doing such. Know that.
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