Crib Loss

II

At dawn, they pulled the porch slats for a box,

a gentle carpenter carved into it,

first a tendril, then a garland of phlox,

semblance of the new season, an admit-

tance to the country just beyond. Commit-

ting childhood to forever or afar

exceeds their imagination; they pore

over black-and-white sketches, a sparrow

on a grey stone. Nowhere is there a color

for breath or breeze,the wind aching to blow.

III

Brevity in the life of a squall and its flight.

Whether lasting or not, the baby’s mat

was laid, its corners, neat; the bedroom, light

and airy. Spring birth. Her cry had come at

five. They heard it, and with it the air that

slipped her lungs, the tiptoe-tread of grief; through

a door they had not left ajar, out to

a yard they’d never seeded. Theirs, the way

of hedges, fences, roads—boulders in blue-

grey shadows. Hers, the green grass of day.