( inspired by a photo I recently saw of Margot and her father)
There’s a word for dad and daughter, for heart and the loneliest anemone in the fields; and regrettably whoever can’t read soft fields would kill if they tried.
A daughter has her own yielding richness & reads even in burning leaves--before the self-immolation!--that there is love and every sunrise for it; and, she'll say
stars that can be prickly beasts, even over rich Guyanese fields, are words, too, or a type of sumptuous sea in which grimy otters still sleep tied safely to shore.