a search for primroses
interrupted by a little boy
who tells her

there are only daisies
to gather them
and as she gathers

birds start the wordless
racket they toss into
space every morning

with all the other
invisible somethings
with no names

to weigh them down
or slow the spin 
of their dance

until day comes 
and the birds return 
to hunting breakfast

while she wants
that nameless
invisible thing

that quivering light
on day’s edge that
throbbing awakening

that unbearable wholeness