Advent week 1
the morning after leaving my mom in a nursing home
There’s a silver mist on the green grass,
the oaks and pines are branches and alveoli
breathing for the world.
A streak of flame across the sky,
the night opens its sleeping black eyes to a day of palest blue.
The roosters are crowing.
The woman who breathed and moaned me into the world
lies in a rehab bed, laboring her way to The Day
when everything will be okay.