Last night the animals

    beneath her window

    crept out of hiding

    to comb the dirt

    from each other's fur.

    Rising to watch，

    she discovered the lilacs

    lit from below by ivory vinca.

    The street on the other side

    of the trees continued

    to contain its passing cars；

    tenderly her teeth

    let her tongue rest

    against their curving backs.

    Tonight when she lies

    in bed again，

    she will remember

    the one kind thing

    her grown daughter said today

    after weeks of scrutiny¹，

    and the moment at work

    just now， when a stack

    of Day-Glo folders²

    cascaded³ over her desk，

    thrilling the white cubicle⁴

    with their descent.