Now as she catches fistfuls
of sun riding down dust and air to her crib, my first child in her first
spring stretches bare hands back to your darkness and heals your silence,
the vast hurt of your deaf ear and mute tongue with doves hatched in her
young throat.
Now ghost-begotten
infancies are the marrow of trees and pools and blue uprisings in the
woods spread revolution to the mind, I can believe birth is fathered by
death, believe that she was quick when you forgave pain and terror and
shook the fever from your blood
Now in the thriving season
of love when the bud relents into flower, your love turned absence has
turned once more, and if my comforts fall soft as rain on her flutters, it
is because love grows by what it remembers of love.
