Lee Herrick

The House is Quiet, Except

my daughter reads on the couch,
whispers the dialogue. I only hear

the consonants of her name, the way

I imagine a house of books
in a future age,

2035, when I will be 65 and alive,

I hope, and she will be 31,
perhaps with faith and a love

she can count on—wild trees,

wild flowers, a man, or a woman.
Perhaps God or someone else

to whom she can whisper dialogue
if she forgets where her heart is,