Afterwards, I rub your back and begin to drift

My fingers are old men
hobbling in a garden,
who blink and step with care
over the uneven
land they know by heart,
yet it still surprises
when a little tilling
produces miracles.

 

 
Falling asleep in the afternoon
(For Liana, age eight)

though the rain comes on small
feet we are going far,
perhaps to find a jump rope,
the buttery rhythms of
jumping in June air
as crickets chant,
We belong I have
loved my life by stepping
out to leave deep prints

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