Today I noticed something
for the first time,
that the world is old
and slipping
from the cup of your hand.
See, I noticed
as you slept
you have lost all
the petals of your flower,
your head drooped
tipping your shoulder,
a soft light kissed your cheek.
It was your fingers that gave it away,
long and thin
like pieces of bog oak
curled
twitching
as if you were dreaming,
dancing I’m sure
around our kitchen
cradling the sweeping brush,
and I as a child
part of your leg,
dancing too.
Perhaps when you wake
we can become two shadows
flickering in the light around the room,
and the night can split
shards of crystal upon the floor
for us to sweep with our feet,
but for now,
the thin stalks of yellow fingers
stay closed
like a sleeping flower
and I watch
and watch you dream
dream
dancing with your child in arms,
your fingers brushing my cheek.