Innocence
My eldest daughter gives me a stick,
says, “This is your poem now.”
The water at the bottom of the well shines
dark as a new moon.
Trees obscure the stars and I forget
how an afternoon of lightness
in a cotton summer blows me sail-like
over the daily surf that smooths
and mars, smooths and mars.
The stick is gray, irregular, long, light.
Now a sword, a wand, a beaten song.
Now an earth-driven staff. What will endure.