Waiting
She
was waiting for the world
to
bend into the durable arms of children
the
fluid nature of love
that
blesses as it spends,
wears
its mock rabbit slippers
into
the handgrenaded places.
But
her mother had already passed on
into
the beds of yellow asters
into
the blue blue eyes
of
the coneflowers
that
spring up everywhere
where
lament names them
and
silence
admonishes
them to stay.
