She's on my shoulders, her chin snug
on my crown; her hands;
little-strong, clasp
my neck.
My man's fingers & thumbs circle
the glass bones of her ankles.
I am her daddy. Hers.
I imagine the feel of me through
her feelings. She chuckles
at the roughness of my whiskers. I'm the stuff,
in this moment, of her childhood
memories to come: The faint
crispness in the beginning-distance
of her life. These are the days
before her brother will be born.
He is due in August.
These are my last days of this particular
closeness with her. Quickly a glisten
in the corner of my eye builds
to clear silvery wobbles, suddenly pigeons
clap up from the corn, the smooth
heavy-blue sky sheets
electric-flash, her hands cling
a little harder as the dark
clouds rumble.
My cheeks itch with trickles.
As the storm hovers above her she says
with her small-voice clarity -
'Daddy, I won’t cry.'