Out the kitchen window, my daughter
scales the cottonwood tree, winds
her way up the inner branches.
Feeling my eyes, she turns to smile at me,
her gaze entered by light.
The tree is bare, the buds in gray hoods,
though soon there will be a riot of quivering green.
So much in us still waits to arrive,
though in moments such as this,
there are no other moments, only this one
fluttering wild in our breast, not even trying
to balance the emptiness, with our hearts so full.