She’s two years old now,
asleep at last for the afternoon.
These days, she’s at peace with powdered milk,
negotiating like a grown woman
“yes, now, more, no, yes” —
tufts of curly hair bouncing like a busy gecko on her head.
I have some time to myself now
but I don’t know what to do.
Outside, all is soggy.
The monsoon is gracing us with her presence again.
I make a cup of coffee,
and sift my books  —
but the words drift around my mind like feathers
and I can’t wait for her to wake up again,
so I can melt into her little hugs.
The world is so rich, and full
like swirling inside Lang Lang’s piece

Written for my niece on September 16th, 2020.