Chalk-dusted blue
and milky blown glass satellites
swing on a mobile-
glazed in licorice purple
and frosted in sugar gold-
bubble and melt above young Time's crib.
As they weave their way overhead
her tiny mind knits them together,
(growing body, growing thoughts-plans.)

What was an unanchored rock, now
a half-eaten cookie: left on the countertops of heaven,
by that naughty child Time.
For us remains a crescent-sweet:
candied evidence from which she's
taken her bite,
and scampered away.