(for Ava)
Her fingers scrabble at glass,
over floorboards, table legs and chairs
to catch the word that runs away from her,
sifted through leaves, snatched up on a breeze,
stolen by clouds, returned.
Propelled on bottom, elbows, knees,
with silent determination, she follows it
and only when it spills out of her hand,
whispers, like someone in a church
or library, sunshine.
She knows the moon even when
it is nothing more than a curl on blue,
or half an ear listening for the next star.
Even the disc of milk in a bowl is moon.
She says the word and drinks it in.