With luck and a following wind
We should reach shore tomorrow
She declares
We are hovering over busy waters
Not quite sailing
Not quite capsized
I sit back
Lean into the boat
And her
My little anchor
It really was a minor chip
She spreads out
Bread and jam
On the wooden floor
Tender little fingers
A flick and a blur
A dandelion drifts
As if time is unwinding
How pretty
She laughs
Wiping jam from her lips
It’s sticking to you
Like a flower to a stem
Like us
I look at the blue cup
The meniscus
A clear horizon
The ghost a certain shore
I hear her singing
Forehead cringing
Notes spun in mist and moons
Rushing past boot prints
Trimming off the small print
It’s funny how time can last
Forever or an instant
A blur or ticking clock
She lifts her eyes
At once imaginary
And alive
For she comes
My story book child
With a fair wind
Hand in hand.
