But for a residual hue of a picture in my mind.
Slowly tumbling the child gravitates to a corner
Of the bed , near the lamp, now dead of light. He turns to light in mind’s corner, a thrower
Of things like tumblers, a lover of silk- touch
On tablet computer to move shadows across,
Mocking at my adult intelligence, perpetuating
Innocence in a pair of beauty-eyes like dawn
From behind the mountains in this early spring. The tablet catches him in its light-box rolling.
He squats on the glass-top, rattles our spoons
On the glass exploring steel’s contact with glass,
A lover of knowledge, against the fragile fears
Of adults who break quickly of glass and steel.
He has glass and steel casting shadows in light,
In mind’s corner, from a glass-top of innocence.