By Leah Mooney

My daughter cups
an imaginary tea pot,
tea that she has steeped
for a blue and winged skunk,
who is a most gracious guest
in our home.

As she sets the pot
upon the table,
she bends:
the weight, the heat
of her burden.
         Be very careful,
she warns the skunk.
Plucking two lumps of sugar
from the air,
         she soothes him --
Here,
         it's sweet. It will
make you
sing.

Don't ask me where
she learned this;

I'm bound to tell you
something as easy and daft
as everywhere
you let yourself
look.