A single pudgy arm, lifted
to swipe your father’s glasses
right off his astonished face,
and your delight
at this accomplishment.
The way you hold the lenses,
now smeared with fingerprints
from your dimpled little hands.
The creases of your wrists,
the heavy bracelets of flesh
on your thighs, the sweet sound
of your voice when you wake
in a good mood. Your cooing
at the springy toy with the bell,
at the cat, and especially at us.
Such a smile, a radiance, when
all we’ve done is speak
kindly, or enter a room.
Your baby kisses that are more
like licks. The way you yawn, the
smell of your hair, those soft cheeks.
I look at you, and all I see
is poetry.
