Dear D.B.,

Your fingers are infantile.

When I looked away, they

dropped the stuffie from your warm palms

and grasped the glass fairy

who perched on the highest shelf.

 

She left the floor baby blue

and pearly hues.

A stormy day went by.

 

Your fingers have a dull pulse.

Across the room in your sweet dreams,

the stuffie is back in your crib;

you didn’t forget it was there.

 

When I look at you,

your hands are rosebuds,

your atoms are gold dust.

 

You didn’t see glass

and want to break it,

you craved to touch it

because it was beautiful.

 

I watched the waves from the octopus’ garden.

Sweet dreams.