We brooders burst into bloom.
She runs through the house
like a small flying gnome,
one who might choose to hover
over the roots of plants and trees
to summon the cold and the starlight.
But she does not hover tonight.
Mama chasing me, she says,
and she runs with her small feet
quite syncopated and slightly drunk
on the sweet cup of youth, and for
the first time she –ings
in her speech, and the moment
leaps out of the present and leans
into the thought that an object
in motion remains in motion
and life scampers on past this
frame where she and I race around
the green countertop. And the moment,
once all there was, grows wings. And it’s true,
I am chasing, have chased and will still
be chasing her long after her happy squeal
has left its sender to splice the moon.
We end the moment too soon, too soon,
and then spend a whole lifetime trying to unlearn
the present progressive, to wholly embrace
the now. I chase. I love. I learn. I am. We are
and glory be. I would make the moment hover
if I could, and still all my longing and slow
the light as it leaves. But I can’t. And the moment
has slipped its frame and she’s laying in bed
cooing the alphabet in gibberish, a miracle
who is falling but has not yet quite fallen asleep.