She entered very gently, my daughter.
The dawn entered with her, but not
quite as gently. Her bare feet
made less noise than my pencil on the page,
but her laughter was louder than my poem.
She climbed, very gently, onto my lap.
The poem, like her, came creeping in, but not
quite as gently, not with the same
gentle urgency. Like a furtive thief
my daughter stole my inspiration,
those lines – almost finished, almost mine.
And here she fell gently asleep,
contented with her crime.
