Good Life


A house wren churrs

Over the field of witch grass, wild

Onion and baby’s breath

In the crisp spring air.

Through the foggy pane,

A child peers at the sky

From his crib. He’s swaddled

In his hand-me-down quilt,

Circulated for centuries.

He scoots upright to his knees,

Grabs hold of the timber around him.

He exhales a puff of balmy breath

And hauls himself from the mattress to his feet.

Observing the blossoms, he coos

And takes his first stride off the old quilt.

Releasing the bars, his hands

Butterfly several times

As he totters.