P—W  V° 01:07

To All The Glory

by Lydia Vasko

My daughter’s eyes descend
like the sun. Sometimes,
they settle softly
and whisper
into the gloaming.
But most times,
dusk is met
with an explosion,
a tumult of crimson and clementine
cries against the night.

I haven’t seen the sun
set in many moons,
or raised a glass to toast
this golden, happy hour,
traded for the witching.
But there is as much
hackneyed beauty
and mortal melancholy
between us here,
rocking, crooning, cajoling
in a dark room,
than under the ruby haze.

There is as much
humble magic in her eyes
as in the most radiant star
sinking into a blazing sea.
And when she suckles slowly to sleep,
reaching her palm
to caress my face,
or wraps her infant fist
around my finger,
it is no less magnificent.

2021 © L.Vasko