Images flutter like
F. X Leyendecker
At night she grasps the elusive.
Moon beams, like tiny dust pillows,
float in that soft light.
I hear her giggle
reaching out her small soft hands
For something that can ne’er be captured,
But she’s happy just the same;
To leap, to dance, to swirl, and hold
Her hands outstretched
Like reaching for small drops of night dew,
And that great joy of innocence which laughter brings,
Like the stirrings of the poet’s words,
Or the strings of a lute from a renaissance night.