Primavera, Senior Year
As the languorous calm of winter ends,
enter gardeners, whirling bees–
And all the things I wanted to hold onto–
a child’s hand, cool as an oboe;
by the window
lying in bed with extra pillows,
talking to my daughter, texture
of voices like patent leather
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?