You ask for news, but can I tell as news
how a certain line has called inside my head
for three days now: I nearly missed the eclipse,
the way the sky grew dark mid morning.
The clean rain came flowing down my window
unselfconscious as a child’s tears.
                                                         Last night
my daughter dreamt a unicorn, she dreamt
herself as part of his bright landscape. Today
the waking world seems dull to her. She draws
a picture of a mother and a child
identical except for size. I tell her
that mother is a soft word for whispering,
an old word, a babe’s first sound, a strong word
for sheltering by, a place to grow from.