A Song for my Granddaughter

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Sound throws down a hammer and gravity sinks in, wind dances off with the leavings and I don’t know how to begin

to tell you the truth about truth how it marches along the trail, how it drifts on a current without any effort to raise a sail

how after the fact you must cut it back to a shiny brown nub, how the lamp stays a polished lamp no matter how hard you rub

how you zip your tent at night against the mosquitoed air, how you dream of an ancient jetty and a skeleton under there

how the lip is a slip of the tongue and the tongue is a lover’s knot and the end of truth is a metaphor and the end of a rose is rot

So don’t try to tell it, Matilda, or it will look like a lie, just show your face to the golden sun as it drops at the edge of the sky