Violet Monday

6:15 and the baby is crying, despite staying up past bedtime at a Super Bowl party. I pull her long, pajama bottom limbs from her crib without saying good morning, lay down in the guest room bed to nurse until she sits up laughing like a trickster Buddha. She looks out and around with a bright, turned up face, eyes slightly squinted in the first light, an enigmatic wavelength she intimately knows.