|Oct/Nov 2007 Poetry Special Feature|
Child, the sky went out. The light turned
like amethysts reflecting on themselves
inside closed geode hearts.
The day you were taken, transplanted
into cold dark, sailboats navigated
the fog in circles. I despaired, and then,
hope flared. Listen, you must wait; you must
wrap yourself in woolens; remember
that snow will melt and run transparent
down mountain backs, awakening fragrance,
lakes, turtles covered in river mud,
and you will stretch your legs again
in the warming sun, forget-me-nots
blooming in your wake—that was my premonition.