this is where time splits the river
do you see
what I mean about beauty?

our daughter
smashes blossoms
on her mouth, tries
their texture,
learns the feel of plant-skin

and she is our minister
of naïve blessings
and her fine head shines
as if spun by cedar

see the soft-veined petals
laid out on the bed
of my palm, like a gown
see this flower
drop into rivulet
and travel, see this
white violet

and this,
another in bits
on our baby’s wet chin
and her tongue is fat
with its velvet