georgia o'keefe in miniature
(poem by Dad)

right now our daughter has a photo
in the back of her sky blue crayon

she's trying to shake loose.
between the borders of a bone-paper world

there are mornings that fill up
with just one color and spill over

the page. little curls like insect wings
scatter over the edges, across

the table or floor. then page on page
afternoons become a frenzy of

prismatic gnats dragging
neon spaghetti. she cooks up

cloud after cloud, gigantic flowers,
and at least three long straight horizons

for her past, present, and future --
and sometimes one more

for a time all her own.