when she's fluttering, do you think
of butterflies with snowy whitecaps,
coming, going, but always coming back?
when she's laughing, do you wonder
of baby birds with glittering feathers,
breathing, singing, but always flying back?
then the insects, the birds, my dog and me
we move in quiet rhythm to an unspoken melody;
somehow, we know, today we're coming home
to find Ahma sewing by the sea.
