Willa collects leaves from the sidewalk.
On the bus ride home she decides to keep them
through the winter.
At home she lays them on a towel in the bathroom
so they can be near running water and
feel the warmth of steam.
Held up by hands of the dead,
I write by candle light while
the moon sinks down.
My body mirrors the old trees,
becoming conversant with the wind,
branches occasionally dropping off.
Asleep in the big bed, a girl and a kitten
mesh their dreams
of forests and fish.
Awake, I worry the parent's worry,
how to keep the child safe
and kindle a sense of wonder.
Buried deep in winter’s dark body,
the dead grasses dream of
a windy green ocean.
And even with the moon gone,
the stars continue as golden engines
speaking in voices we cannot hear.
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