Four a.m. and brightness already - 

Today, the sun begins as a white rose, 
a white rose tinged with silver and blue. 

Still hours before I'll see 
               any pink or yellow - 

Windows open all night - 

My dreams want me 
    to believe they are true - 

This morning smells of a newborn infant's skin 
        in those moments 
just before the newborn mouth opens - 

This morning smells of wet grass, 
       full moon drenched grass - 
A restless sweetness, pungent - a sweetness, dense 
          and thickening with snails and worms - 
Each blade tense with what?
Extravagant, this full moon -
Extravagant, this morning
          at four a.m., fragrant with wildflowers about to open -
about to open, wildflowers
          you might have forgotten -

Out of that silence, a young bird calls
with my daughter’s voice, with her first sounds - 
The bird mimics her first syllables,
       her almost words
she used to sing whenever she awakened
       from her deepest sleep -
her deepest infant sleep -

A young bird calls
        with my daughter’s voice - 
and what does that mean?

Harbinger of love?

There is only that one bird calling, calling -
        and then it too falls silent
as if hushed to quietness or sleep -

I lie awake with my daughter’s voice,
        while she sleeps
her teenage sleep
        full of what dreams now -