*For Stephanie Mae Prewitt*
Life in pure young arms:
still clean, fresh, unmussed sheets.
Your smile a sea
of purple heather lifting days
that could be weeds.
We bathe the dog--she shakes
a mess on counter tops,
but water's always
wipable and laughter
is a kitchen towel.
You write a "thank you"
for nothing I did or bought
or handed you;
warm sentiment
means more that way.
I pray when you age--
chestnut brown turns silver coins
in a tub of time grimed up--
you'll always talk, take feel in palms
as mothers soothe a child's hurt.
Never burn in acetone
of frosting that you
could have spread,
of things you thought
but did not say.
Stayed in clumps like pebbles
of a birthday cake--
crumbled in
shut trunks
of cars.
©2000 Janet I. Buck
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