My daughter drifts just
above the carpet
Picking up pieces of paper
Or lint and inspecting them
with careful
Motions of her fingers so
their mysteries
Remain creased in the angles
of her palm.
She delicately tries to dig
patterns
From the table, the little
flecks of paint
From the kitchen tiles, and
minor sunbeams
From where they gleam on the
patio.
She examines stray strands
of her mom’s
Hair for hieroglyphics that
might be inscribed
There: instructions for
creating daydreams
Out of household dust. Some
things are so fine
It takes less than a breath
to move them. Time
Moves them to a place
outside our reaching.
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