Soothed in the evening when the wind dies,
Soothed by the hill at a lower register,
Its easy line against the tinting sky,
Tinting on the mirrored pond,
Calm as bullfrog dirges from the reeds,
Calm as fireflies rising from the field,
Helping now to ease the way,
As when i slipped her iPod from its case
To charge the pack and listen to her songs,
The slick back shining in my hand,
Her fingerprints still there upon the chrome,
And the music of my child played on.
