Language
Linda Leedy Schneider
A child cuts wings
from white paper,
colors each set to order.
Masking tape attaches
us to the fluttering.
Two empty soda bottles in hand,
she taps the edge of the counter.
We answer each other. Rhythms repeated
and reorganized.
The language of drums
like the baby in her chair
repeating ball, bottle, book.
Sounds tossed, caught
and repeated,
Itīs why I write. I want you
to smile in understanding
like I did when she found
the music of Mama.
