Nose to your cheek
I am brighter than green
fire, no words break
the surface of dewdrops.
What I can say to you
comes in silver sounds the open
hollow harbors: the rosined hum
of cricket legs as they slow,
nightingale’s Morse code lullaby.
I want to bottle your daily
travels, whiffs of skin
my child, hold them—when you are
no longer near—that first memory
like bubbles rising from still water, not yet
letters on the page..