(for a child on the chief musician's lap)

 

Cradled in the lap

of your father’s music,

his lotus legs and thighs

rippling with sounds of lake,

your ears watch the waters

cascading the ancient stories,

your mother telling them

with fingers gesturing the fishes,

shaping the pollen strength

af newly-sprung butterflies.

I watch your trance.

The dancer’s eyes

Are yours, too,

telling me secrets

of world’s in rhythm,

tier upon tier of reality

templed in our heads,

swaying to the wind currents.

When your eyes deepen into sleep

I know: in the night’s womb

the dream of music balances

the worlds you inhabit.

Danau Batur is deathly still

beneath its waters

the volcano’s heart beats.