That?

In the cold, red air

of an April twilight

I carried my daughter 

around the yard wrapped 

in a soft blanket

like an infant queen

of the grasses

from long ago

while her mother

worked inside

on another story

filled with blood

and flashing light

that burns the eyes

to give us sight.

The Little pointed 

every seven seconds

asking, “That?”

and I stumbled

to remember 

the names

of things

the words

like spells

or tiny birds

flying out 

of our mouths.

.