Papa used to sit with his dulcimer across his lap,
playing songs of the trees, long forgotten
Mama would dance like the leaves of autumn
arms spread like wings.
or so they have told me.
Now Papa holds a baby across his knees,
his arms filled by a yawning, tiny human
he uses his voice to
release the music swirling like a
storm at sea.
Mama’s soft hand is holding mine
she twirls me like a dandelion
our skirts flapping in the wind.
Papa always says she is as beautiful
as the black-blue sky strewn
with luminous stars
and I am his pink sunshine,
filling his world with light.