A poem for you, my beloved daughter, yet to form your first word:
Late Talker
We don’t communicate in words
we communicate in looks and touch
in a cry heard through the walls
in the sudden opening of a door
we communicate in lines
yellow or blue in the soft rip
of a Velcro diaper wing in
front to back in back is best
we communicate in spoonfuls
in grunts in a washcloth between
your toes in the buzz of your tongue
in patter of knee and palm
we communicate in tiger growls
and monkey shrieks in a tilt
of your hips on the perch
of my arm in a flail of hands in flint
of laughter a clutch of hair
in a press of noses in fingers
wrapped around a finger
in a long unbroken gaze
we communicate in voice in tone
a deep hum from my heart
to your head in a thumb
hooked on my lip
in dim lights at night in the turning
of a page in the heaviness
of your head and my hand
the slowness of our breath
we communicate in root
and branch in the seed
planted grown tall then planted
in what precedes what follows
in what one day will be
words and what words
when they cease
become again