36› weeks

Bring me the thrush,
its hushed lullaby of song.
Bring me freshly fallen pinecones,
each tree that waits within.
Bring me the cloud's faithfulness
to the sky, the scent of wool,
the brindled light of birches in the rain.
Bring me the first snowfall,
earth's body glowing silver white.
Bring me the dusty crystal vase,
its constant promise
of a moment's quiet flowering.
Bring me the deer
who stands at the edge of absence,
the blessing its fleet limbs impart.
Bring me the old horse's fetlocks,
the whistling rhythms
of mallards swimming through
sorrow's dark lake. Bring me
the purple grapes tipped with moonlight,
the windfall apples, the teacup
brimming with my grandmother's tears.
Bring me the hope that abides
within, despite the thin goat
waiting alone in the clearing,
despite my stubborn heart.

Bring me all of these,
then one by one, I ask you
to take them away, and bring me
only your night's secrets,
the cupboard housing
your bone white fears.

Bring them to me.
I will wash them gently. I will
set them in the sun to dry.

Hand in hand, we will step forth
into the heron light of early morning.
Hand in hand, we will bow down
and greet another dawn.

Used by permission of the author.