Monday, April 19, 2010
In the dark, I feel her breathe. I know she sleeps holding a hip
in the palm of one hand. Likes to walk finger tips on a rib cage, to overlap
finger and thumb when she circles a wrist. She has gone from me on tip-toe,
my milky girl, and become her own instrument - one of those fine-boned harps
that need to be played to keep in tune. Those strings. They shudder as I pass.
Do go to the new Tuesday Poem site to read the poem selected for today and find links to the other Tuesday Poets. We are 21 at last count and growing.