High on her luscious thigh, we point
to the map of our corner of the universe.
Faint and violet, a nebula yet unprobed
by the world’s curiosities, we are drawn
to its small burst, star rising in the east.
We’d lasso it to earth if we could, fall
prostrate in awe, shouting glory, revolve
elliptical around the blue-hot core, let brilliance
shoot from our fingertips. Now she crawls
out of reach, xylophone and spinning top
her planets to conquer with flags of grasp
and drool. When her legs lengthen, taper
to womanhood, will this constellation fade,
our worship unmarked, will our wanting hearts
look up and remember this brief heaven?
The gardener I never reckoned on, she sows
with the fire of a zealot—rows cowlicked
in garlic, snow peas fence-latticed, mounds
studded gold—my daughter bends to earth’s
pure bidding. She’s living up to her baby name,
called Tater for the sun-brown quickness on nose
and arms. She means to mine these coffers
for yields unborn, sequin the counter with
a gracious plenty. Her reach is the surest we know,
to feed and be sated, even as she nurses
a sprout on her belly’s milk, all of us waiting
for the fruit made flesh, for the muskmelon
to twirl its sweet mouth in pearlized clay
yearning toward first harvest.