Primavera, Senior Year

As the languorous calm of winter ends,
enter gardeners, whirling bees–
riotous breakaway
Spring.
And all the things I wanted to hold onto–
a child’s hand, cool as an oboe;
lamplight; reading
by the window
lying in bed with extra pillows,
talking to my daughter, texture
of voices like patent leather
straps overlapping–
begin to loosen. The velvet ear of
close attention has been lost to racier
attractions. She is all hunger and eye,
I on the sidelines.
Go ahead and throw garlands,
untighten, cultivate the longer hours.
Who, just who taught her
to shake the rafters?