last night
when I tucked you in under your pink quilt
with the green frogs on it,
I crawled into bed behind you and
we spooned.
I scratched your smooth back
while I sang
Scarborough Fair –
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme –
and stroked your round cheek
with the back of my hand
after the final refrain.
Then we felt each other’s muscles
and giggled.
For our daughter, when she was 7.
Paper-thin ice
juts from the curb.
Delicate,
like sheets of sugar glass,
it glistens in the sun.
Sodden white clumps drop
from trees – splash!
into slushy puddles
in the yard.
Slick branches drip. Drip. Drip.
Snowmelt trickles down roofs.
Street gutters gurgle and gush.
The neighborhood burbles merrily
like a clear mountain stream.
I wrote this on March 1, 2012 in Minnesota, and originally named it “March 1.” This year in Minnesota, “May 1” may be a more appropriate title.
Butterfly Mind 