The words drop like minutes
rain in ever-expanding pools,
knit and purl the pavement’s verse.
*
There is singing
inside of me. Small voices.
The pitter patter
of tiny fingers
leaving
wet handprints
on the glass.
*
A box a boat a pirate’s nest
A bird a bee a seed.
A book a song a quilted bed
A kiss, then eyes at rest.