Dreams

Sweet dreams.
Lovable toy to sleep with.
Your parents and God and sisters
love you.
You feel safe
because you are.

written by Victoria, my 7 year old daughter, who says she wants to be a poet when she grows up...from the mouths of babes.

To Be In Clover

Never thought the seeding would take
that the finest tiny grains
would find their way to salvation
to germination
to a burst of inspiration
after being cast on such sterile
stony ground.

Thought it would be over, was over
after the black frost of October
of departure
and the end of crimson blossoms
four leaf clovers
or the specter
of relief.

But among the dew matted fallen leaves
among the shocks and tied up sheaves
a tiny meadow has emerged
a patch of green not yet interred
and the prospect of my own fixation
and the distance of sanctification
are altered by the legume
grafted by her rune
and fallowed
by the liming
of her love.

Victoria

Victorious finally...
an almost Rembrandt day
where if my brow is furrowed
the source is significant
and truly
every decision
matters
supremely.

My victory finely,
in the Albinoni adagio way,
in subtle shades of the pure
and pink and precious
first fruit plucked
from a weeping tree,
ripened
reluctantly
reverently.

When,Victoria, you find me
apostate and incapable of prayer
remind me,
in your angelic muse kind of way,
of the lavender life,
of first fruit fervor
and of the ordinary happiness
of today.

Written in October 2000, on the birth of my daughter Victoria. Posted today in celebration of her 7th year.

Two Bridges