From my window

It is a day in June, the grass tall,
covered in dew, with birds foraging
like a herd of small cows,
but seeking worms, insects, things that move.

It is a day in June and all
I see on the lawn is ageing.
My wandering brain, its circuits firing, allows
as how Dayana is asleep, but would approve

of me thinking that she is yet in her bed.
At thirteen, she has reason to seek sleep.
If she were looking out over Guatemala City,
her view would be other rooftops, grass in the distance.

I imagine that Amanda awakens in passive resistance
to being a poet herself, for words are not her thing. No pity
has she for my pursuit of matters as deep
as poets go to define universal feelings as I am led.

May my words like the wide, red light
of morning, bring an end to night,
and joy to the birds, the young ladies,
and to my new grandchild who seeks

her own way this day in June.