Movements Giving Off Light

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Drops of water stretch and hold 
in the sunlight: the small icicle 
sways from the eaves in the thaw. 
I see it fall 
because I have come to the window 
at this moment. 

*

In my daughter’s room: a jagged gash 
of lipstick across the mirror. 
She is at school—left for her early class 
with the usual snatched breakfast, 
but always on time. 
I placed a clipping from the newspaper 
on her desk—her name 
highlighted in yellow: straight A’s— 
and looked up startled into the thick red 
across the glass, moved from there 
to the day’s chores in slowed-motion. 

*

Dusting, I move aside Rachmaninoff 
at the piano where last night 
she played again and again 
the difficult phrasing. 
Next week the recital.
*

The sound of water 
drips a crazy rhythm 
from the roof. I read the same page
over and over at my desk, finally
spend the afternoon in the kitchen
kneading dough: molasses and rye
to resilience that will pass 
from hand to hand without clinging
then rise in the slanted sunspot
on the counter. 

*

She goes straight to the table 
and opens her books—trigonometry,
physics. Sunlight ricochets 
from the wet patio to the amber hair
at her shoulders where I place my arm.
Startled green eyes take the light.