For an unborn daughter
By Lisa Higgs

In the silent corner of the house,
I sometimes hear your melody rising
as each star must on some foreign planet.

You play the piano softly,
your small hands unsure of the space
between each step higher in a scale.
They do not know two points
prefer to be connected with a straight line
or that waves sometimes move
faster.  You do not need such science.
Arch your hands.  Be simple, filled.

The million-years light of Polaris tonight
is closer than you; at its beginning,
seemingly as far away.  I had not thought
to wish for you, but you are here.  I listen.