Says.

He says

He reached out today.

6 and nearly 2.

One is six now.
The other, smaller
almost 2.
I call them 6 and 2.
Who's counting? maybe the doctor.
Watching them
2 is running
naked
around the table.
6, my first
showering
after an afternoon
spent in chalk.
We listen
We listen to music
from when I was born.
savoring
this first day
of Summer.
A tiny voice says
It's not for you.
But for once I feel
For once I feel
like I can snap
clap
my jaws
and say
no.

Muddled.

I used to have words for
that sensation you have
when you're just waking up
from sleep.
A muddle

Last week.

It's a struggle.

I sit here you know
getting lost in a false world, with faces I'll never see
words I'll never really hear
just read in safety.
But it's a comfort.
Hooves and horns
swishing tails
alone still
un-obligated.

watch.

I watch her
as we walk.
It's raining. Her umbrella is folded
waved around as she sings
oblivious to the light rain I shelter myself
and the baby from.
She sings and chatters
hair and face
kissed by the moisture.
She chatters
why do the worms crawl?
can she wear her boots on the
way home?
When can she walk alone?
I watch her
carefree.
no worries
except maybe
the chicken for dinner.
She spins
and she twirls
waving to the cars
My Little Hands.
May you never stop.