“The central fact of my life has been the existence of words and the possibility of weaving those words into poetry.” ~ Jorge Luis Borges, This Craft of Verse
This poem came to me a few words at a time, the rough opening lines a few weeks ago, and then they took shape as I drove Brett to school on Monday. The rest came over the past few days. Tuesday night I could not sleep until I committed the middle to paper, and I’m glad that I did as too often I say to myself, I will remember in the morning, and I never do.
It’s still a bit rough, but I think that I’m almost there.
Late prayer for my daughter, heavy now with child
your father brought me lilacs
pale purple blossoms
to quell my anger.
you sat so still,
holding your sister,
mere weeks from the womb.
Your Easter dress—
covered with pink rosebuds,
the picture I took,
lost somewhere to time.
you wait for your own girl child,
counting down the days,
a mere wisp on your lips
where happiness untroubled once dwelled.
Memories of other Aprils
reminders of spring’s inconstancy.
both heaven and hell in my heart
like a tea cup full of fragrant blooms.