Her mouth is busy
with the pretend cry
of a baby who looks around
to see if anyone notices

She rests on the musky blanket
under the shade of the trees,
squirms
like a desperate worm,
then stays still
to watch a swallowtail
unfold and disappear

The butterfly’s flittering
causes a stir in her
that slowly edges over
into a full blown performance
of a blowout

                      ###

There is no rush in me,
only a casual saunter to see
the least
of what’s required of me

When I bring her up
to rest her head on my shoulder
she clutches my twisted beard,
pulls hard
to lift her eyes
to the swaying pines

Her blue eyes
are the dual barometers of the world
as ever so slightly they fall
into a baby’s state of grace

ssshwooo…
the whistle of the wind 
through the swishing needles
is our lullaby