As I type, Emma spent the night and in the living room, munches on banana, plays with all sorts of toys, babbling constantly. hence:
You Were My God
You were my God when I was still in my mother’s womb
On the S-shaped, metal patio rocking chair,
a slight nod on this oversized spring nudges
grandpa and Emma up and down up and down,
buoy-bobbing on green seas.
Her eyelashes flutter still as
she swoons into a baby dream
on my chest, milk
curdling on her lower lip.
As Wisteria fragrance crests through porch screens,
during each bob I silently whisper
Abba Abba Abba