March 4, 2014

I’m holding on ‘til the last bud withers
 
When she waits until he falls asleep, lungs downshifting
from the day’s high dramas. When he counts back as the plane
descends, the number like a warm blanket on his shoulders
guiding this bird-beast home.
When my mother held Adrienne’s hand even after she slipped away.
When Kirsten clings to the thinnest edge of probability
that, at 46, a child might still be hers. Last night, I couldn’t get to sleep.
Maybe I was staying up for the weatherman’s guess at snow.
Or listening for instructions to appear like trail placards, directing the next steps.
Maybe I just didn’t want the day to end, watching for its final wink of light.