Tuesday, November 01, 2011
The stars grind slow
The stars grind slow.
Father, the mountain laurel blooms
call me, home.
Daughter, walking, the sippy cup
is yours now.
The year past, annus mirabilis
for me. Father, you died
at ninety-two. In twenty-eleven
a quick spell brought you down
too soon, but I, at forty-two
arrived. The photograph, you
holding my six-month baby girl
by the shed, morning glories,
your sweater under her hand.
Firstborn, you smiled through it all
pierced my spine with sunshine,
everything for me a flower opening
and old certainties diminished
for good. And this arrival
co-created by you both, and me, and
a pleroma unknown. At loss,
sadness, tempered by a calming
of unsettled spirits. Completion
is a new view to the horizon
and valleys shadowed deep between
folded so immersive as to contain us
in our descent for years,