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Small things: 
the smell of 

blocks he cut 
from pine light 

as balsa; the ripe, 
toothed grin 

of corn 
under husks he’d 

stripped back; 
handprints 

in the mud 
around flowers. 

It’s morning, 
I’m very small, 

trying to stay 
in his shadow, 

asking… 
Where did this 

come from? 
For no clear 

reason, 
he’s alive 

in his yellow 
cloth hat

and reflective
sunglasses, 

and I’m 
weeping. 

He loves me, 
I know, 

but he holds out
tools 

I can’t keep 
level in my hand.