to Quinn, age 1
Light dawns slowly across the whole.
The apple tree blossoms again;
the pink and white blooms grace
the bare branches like birds.
Snow bells drip from the shock
of lily leaves that huddles near
the base of the house out back.
Quinn toddles to the couch,
eyes crisp with laughter,
cradling a book he wants to read.
(circa 1993, from If This is a Comedy, Why Aren’t We Laughing)