So, here’s another procrastination:
Dear Anna, I was driving home with the baby tonight
(keeping him up later than I should)
singing songs my mama used to sing
draping them over him like worn cotton sheets
appeasement he accepted
with only the smallest of whimpers.
And I suddenly wanted
those old melodies to travel through space to you
a soothing, tender layer of sound
wrapping around your heart,
(whatever part of you needs solace)
Somehow, I knew those soft strains were traveling to you
and I became greedy to share
all the little comforts of my ordinary life with you:
The fact that my girl’s grown an inch in a month
the breathtaking curve of the baby’s cheek,
plump and perfect like a peach
the feel of the dirt in my hands
and the firm green wholeness of the iris I’m transplanting
Dear Anna, I send you this home-made balm with love.
Sweet dreams, bright soul.