a first songa clapping gameon a father’s knee –lindi-ann is no goodchop her up for fire woodwhen she’s deadwe’ll bake her headinto ginger bread.-words shape uswhen our tonguesare still learningto shape the world. there were days in betweenperhaps years, when nasturtium leaveswere tall shade on damp spring morningstheir parasols shining wordlessveining cathedral glassagainst the blueness…