…And then the mother dances through the night
Doubling and looping, soaring, somersaulting—
Her baby hangs on underneath.
All night, in happiness, she hunts and flies.
Her high sharp cries
Like shining needlepoints of sound
Go out into the night and, echoing back,
Tell her what they have touched.
She hears how far it is, how big it is,
Which way it’s going:
She lives by hearing.
More Poetry Friday posts: Wild Rose Reader
Poetry Friday: Rilke
Poetry Friday: The Solitary Reaper
My Son, Aged Three Years and Five Months
It’s a Small Internet After All
“…rejoicing, since all ingredients are here”