First Birthday for Ella

Here's day twenty-eight's: submission for NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month)

First Birthday for Ella

You stick out your tongue

smiling, wag it in and out.

“Blablablablab,” you say,

and I answer, “lahbahlabahlabah.”

We collapse into laughter

for a breath until you purse your lips

“Pftftfbtttt!” And I’m right there with you,

motoring my lips until they connect

with the side of your neck

as I lift you from my lap.

You arch your back and squeal

and I am filled with delight.

You point at me and pinch your lips tight:

“MMMMMmmmmmmmmm.”

I nod. This is indeed delicious.

Ella at (almost) One

Here's day ten's submission of NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month). 

Ella at (almost) One

You hold up

your hand

and point.

Your mouth an “O”

of discovery.

One finger,

out to the world.

On your next birthday,

will you hold two?

Everything is surprise

and delight.

Now is all there is.

With each new gasp

at the dog,

the balloon,
the flower,

your grandma coming

through the door,

you teach me to see

the world
again.

Vacuuming

Here's day four's submission of NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month):

Vacuuming

Since our granddaughter might visit today

I am vacuuming.

I watch the detritus of our passing

disappear off wood floors and area rugs:

small clumps and freshly-cut pieces of grass

the dogs hauled in on damp fur, stuck to backs

rolled like washing machines in the back yard;

brown bits of cereal, dry noodles and flakes of bread,

half a snap-pea, and under the stool a large tuft of

golden retriever hair, part of it stuck to the bottom of the leg.

Between the couch cushions, (look before shoving the nozzle in)

popcorn kernels, seeds, and 38 cents in coins. The quarter is sticky.

Under the couch, where she will undoubtedly play

is a catnip mouse, two chewed tennis balls and a plastic magnet:

the letter E.

By the box in the corner, dozens of shredded pieces of cardboard.

In the hall, (why always in the hall?) black fur from the cat.

Twigs, a long piece of straw; in the corner of the bathroom

a Q-Tip. More hair. Mine and yours. Not from our heads.

Dust. Next to the sink, an earring: pick it up and put it on the dresser.

Under the bed, a sock.

Evidence. We were here. If we suddenly left or disappeared,

this is what we’d leave behind. This is what Ella would find.

Unless, of course, we’d already gotten the house ready for her.