Impractical Gifts

My daughter’s chubby starfish hands
stretch for the darkmirrored river
 ("I want it—)
fingers slicing the lemon pie moon
 (—but I can’t reach!")
dissolving into winking fishscale ripples,
a handful of mud and wails.

I want the image of me reflected in her eyes, but I can’t reach it.

I want to cast a net for the ephemeral image,
haul it in dripping and cratered
simply for the gesture of the thing:
a miracle to burden a bathtub
or to catch careless toes in hallway corners.

I want to cast a net for that image,
feel it tense under a churning weight,
watch it broach the foaming surface
in a gleaming ball of thoughts like fish.
Hold one: slippery-cool, a dense thrashing crescent
silversided in the crease of your palm.
See your face for an instant through its unblinking eye
then let it disappear in a spray of droplets
simply for the gesture of the thing,
simply for the joy of the impractical gift.