North Star Emma

Emma in a stroller.
Red-headed autumn babe
Rolling into my third year
As my rising sun,
Pushed by the regal Demeter
Amidst the swarming
Suits and suitcases.

Parting words for my grandmothers
Punctuated with
Glowing gold-red curls.
My self deepened then
As she sat
Unaware of her affect.

Trans-Pacific flight into
This warmest,
This most huge,
This first, strange sureness:
Connection and surging recognition.

Then ruddy knees,
Waiting with my brothers
In bored, over-sized terminal seats.
Holding on,
Letting go,
Voices echoing
Behind our fierce, photographed smiles,
"Home,
We don't have a home,"
Before this opened channel:

Now Emma beating in my marrow,
Shapes,
Hues,
Noise.

Emma anchored in my sky.
North Star Emma,
Not one year old.