Voicemail Poems

There are few mornings like this – When the tumble day slows and the sweltering July heat subsides; when memories of last night’s fire show resonate with a still-first sense of wonder. The footfall of Fatherhood feels fine underneath; I am comfortable here, at peace with a stirring that has often lingered in the quiet process of thinking. My daughter turns her eyes aware, Expecting the dance of color in the thick night sky, and utters with perfect sincerity the answer her mother and I had first provided to her own plea for more “firewoooorrrks!” “Later, next year,” she repeats. She seems to understand – just as she is profoundly unaware that stirring in her mommy’s womb just now, the slightest mobility towards life of her first sibling yet to be born. The sky creeps thoughtfully, grateful it seems that the booms have subsided, for now – until “Later, next year.” The clouds pass lightly as we look upward to dream of a better place. This unsummer in its brilliant disguise – cool, elusive, uncharted. The to