My left hand embraces the car seat
where she’s buckled like a pink-suited astronaut, asleep,
her head aslant in the sun, my fingers fastened inside her tiny palm
as if I were a good-hearted giant. What caution we must use
to acquire the faith of small creatures.
 
Up front, my wife drives, and the landscape turns its spring face toward us:
the Valley of the Cross shines, demure almond trees turn pink down the slope.
Dazed by radio news flashes, I wonder
about Yeats’ grave wishes, praying for his daughter
against the dark wind from the sea.
 
The sun slides over my eyelids and I too nod out suddenly
into a lazy sleep en route. A quick dream exposes a widening
torrent, the flat land on its banks breathes gold and noon,
an inner voice orders me to take off all my clothes, to bathe in these never-ending
waters, without knowing whether or how
I’ll make it to the other shore.
 
The traffic light changes, moving cars turn me back
to the present. An unfamiliar song on the radio. Lines of light
on the windows. My hand still gripped
in my daughter’s hand.