Fontanel

Almost the end of summer, cicadas still 
        in the trees and some fallen on the grass— 
their trebled hum a veil beneath the growing 
        moon, which also does what it does without
premeditation. How ardently we look for significance
        beyond perception. A weatherman explains 
the occurrence of circles in the clouds: millions 
        of particles in the air will bend the light, and
as that light bends, it makes a perfect ring. I was
        a young mother when someone guided my thumb  
to the hollow atop my newborn's head, to feel the space 
        between the bones of the skull where they 
had not knit together yet. Even now, I still turn 
        toward the idea of an opening, some keyhole 
through which I can thread my undimmed longing.