I never thought I would feel this joy. You, eyeful of sunlight, small and resisting thing push out from the earth with your face petalling mine, and, small thing, I call you small for affection’s sake because you are fathoms large and your cry could swing me back across nations.
I think my palm was hollowed for your head alone, and to think a palm could be a home when I’ve held the curves of stones, beach-cold, in my hand and never felt this pull, this warm and sculling close. I will not write you in parts, small one, as if you were just cheeks, apple-bits, an anecdote put away, when, love, you are my twenty-four hour glory, my seven-day joy.
Come ivory-towered and stone-walled thing, make a child such as mine that is not symbol or sign but flesh and eyes and let her stamp the grass until it cradles her. She is my dignity, unseating hours and consuming them like flame, your 6 pm presumptive chaff, I dare you, walk yourself to her three-feet tall and make a way for her.