My oldest daughter wonders
about my eyes, a mud-covered
green, fronds forming shadows.

I was born from rain, my love,
and rain I will become – there
is no denial. Ha, Ha, Ha. Is it

modern sublime, she asks, hiding
pain worthy of the world, a plot
of beauty and fear? We laugh as

I tuck her into bed, our thoughts,
our fears, light lavender painted
across a February sky, dissolving