There’s an Eurasian hoopoe searching

for worms in my garden.  

Dig dig dig 

It pauses, looks up —

eyes off the grass for a moment

Pick pick pick

I speak of red roses called by other names
To you, who do not yet know this one. I sing
Of suns xanthic, amarillo, jaune, before
You even know yellow; find you poems and games
That spin out sentences like candy-floss; bring
You books in many different languages, more
For my own sake than yours –

Yesterday in my Arabic class

It is not your fault, my child, but I have a confession:

This whole thing is increasingly an irrition on us both.