[1] A girl swaddled in winter gear Crawls around the table where He sits and gobbles sonnets, Even as he knows very well that Lines don't show their true face If run past quickly, post haste, Or when deployed without grace.

Yet he is like that babe With her need to touch everything And be touched by everything, To rediscover again the border where The self ends and the world begins.

[2] The girl stands up, makes her Red-haired mother take off her Goose down armor, and then Runs about the room gurgling in Joy, making sounds with meanings She is not aware of: book, look. And then she accidentally touches His leg with her palm and grins.

At the sight of her perfect but tiny chubby hands and feet, He quivers as a stray page might Riding about on the wind's back.

Beautiful poem.