A pregnant teenage daughter,
poem so dark
you cannot find a candle.
Wait.
Three years pass
while the next stanza
Grows.
Now, this laughing child:
All bossy charm
and sidewalk chalk,
asking five hundred questions
while she blows her small breath
at the wind chimes
announcing that when the chimes play,
Everyone should dance–
Pouring light all over this house
so thick you dance slow
just to savor the view
through the glowing windows.
