Spring in February

This clear day,
at sixteen months
she slips from my hands
yards off the path
to the lambs.
Zipped up tight
in her all-in-one suit
which shines silver and grey
in the morning rays
she wobbles out to what`s there,
a space walker
making her first descent.
Grass on hard ground,
the earth inhaling
a whole still inrush,
she steps just conscious
that the world is present.
I look at a line
of rocks in a stream
that ripples before it cascades
in a gloss of current.
My glance runs like a hand across
the texture of leaden glass
without breaking the surface.