Put the words close enough.
Closer than that, even closer

so that one breath
will make the other turn
and the other turn
                              and say

and the wind break this leaf
from its stem, not the other

and make a cup for the dew
in the shade where the sun
won't dry it

where the bird stops to drink
as your son waits, pointing
"birdie, birdie" and

you snap the picture, the one
where his smile is like
the first time anyone ever smiled

and its place in the frame on your desk
makes you wonder why
you don't write poems
                                    about this.