The cold silver night
shone on the bars
of my own infant bed.
A junebug clinging
to the window screen
had a change of mind,
and flew across the moon.
The cool pillow warmed
beneath my cheek.
The world was still
too new to easily fall asleep,
but even junebugs
go somewhere to hide
before the burning
valley summer sunrise.
On the phone lines,
so high above
the clothes line
where mommy hung
daddy's shirts and sheets
a pair of mourning doves cooed.
A squad of ants
picked at the remains
of a snail,
it's doomed trail
from the night before
still glistening
on the coarse grass
that tickled the soles
of my feet.
Mommy dropped
a clothes pin so I seized it,
squeezed open the jaws,
and let them snap shut
on the wilting blossom
of a dandelion
decapitated
when Daddy mowed
the lawn the night before.
The doves on the phone lines
cooed and I cooed back,
the words I knew were few.
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