ONE BRIGHT BOUNDING BALL OF A YEAR
Climbing piles of warm clothes,
freshly folded from the drier,
you pose, triumphantly smiling,
beneath the soft glow of a lamp…
its dimmed halogen amber.
Toys, tumble from your hand
in a jumble of color, your face,
red like the flames of your hair,
encircles the deep blue pools
of your eyes, transfixed upon
A hanging chandelier, that
lit and turning like the cosmos,
fills the scope of your eyes,
scanning the perimeter of it’s
prismatic light. For nearly one
Bright bounding ball of a year,
you have rolled, tumbled, stumbled
and crawled into each newfound
corner of our lives.
Now, wrapped
in a warm towel, your skin, soft
And pliable from talcum powder,
I thumb the dough of your face,
into a smile, cheeks rising like
flour from a baker’s window.
And now, pleasurably fatigued,
from the throb and pang of your
eyeteeth hammering through,
I stay up later, in the dark, rocking
you to sleep,
knowing that we will never quite be this intimate again...
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I would like to translate this poem
Delightful, touching and well written. A lovely discreption of one of those wonderful, fleeting monents in time, when you are their be all and they are yours. T