Rosanne Singer Poetry

Daughter at Eight

Today I am not surprised to find you
in the neighbor's yard, the front door now mist
you can slip through without a word.

Not afraid, not excited, merely at ease
you pick through wildflowers and mulberries
while I watch at melting windows.

What is our house but a straw hut that keeps
nothing out or in? No wonder nights are
full of other people's voices.

What are you but liquid that takes the shape
of its container? There is so little
left in my hands when I scoop you up.

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