Stars like grains of rice,
arroz you’d say. Eyes wide,
With feet too small for your mother’s shoes
you dance like la Cenicienta
to the beat of Latin sounding words
trickling through our open windows.
Glowing sun upon you, even
beneath this rice-like moonlight,
the spotlight of your mother’s eyes;
firm voice that melts to oh cariño,
soft and sweet,
like honeyed kisses falling on your cheeks
to the music of forgotten childish tears.