National Poetry Month–Poetry by Kim Nixon
Yesterday, standing outside the school gym,
my daughter played her flute for parked cars and trees.
Today she lay on the picnic table
watching clouds, and comments that
the Earth is moving faster, and
the clouds sweeping by are actually still.
She enjoys a certain spot of
sunlight in the late afternoon.
I don’t know the patterns of her thoughts.
Yet, I understand her spot of light,
I want her to be heard above the
male turmoil of my husband and my sons.
Yet, I’ve hung her on the wall like
a piece of landscape art to be admired
while I tend to the needs of men.
My hands are wrinkled, creviced, and
my palms are too full to brush her hair.
At night, the moon juxtaposed against tall tress,
oddly reveals scales of bark the size of her hands.
The sky figures prominently,
a backdrop where I define
intimate textures. I try to hold hope in
tiny details so moments have voice
until my daughter finds hers.
~copyright Kim Nixon