then, the task of balling her socks
which I suggest she bring with her
in case of change in the weather
to the park. The hallway is dark,
crammed with half-seen things— Daddy’s art,
Mummy’s shoes, the baby’s pram.
And this new miracle: small hands
rolling socks as perfectly
as morning surely
opens into deepening noon
or the sun segues to the moon,
the learning of it forgotten.
Stuffing her spotty cotton
socks in my pocket as we go
she takes my hand, and I know
love, like water, will find its
level; that it all somehow fits
together; that it’s not so far
to the park or the morning star.