Logic ricochets in a race
to stay ahead of wishes
for the kids when you go.
Pursing lips against a blur
of all that might have been,
you take my arm to climb
the slope behind the shed.
I move some clay and stone,
we pot the plants from friends
because, you say, someone
will see them bloom one day.
Our embrace is final, even feral,
more in support than letting go;
Your frame a swaying lotus stem
bearing its enchanted blossom.
We stand, ungraceful dancers,
wait for God’s distant do-si-do,
so you can whirl into heaven,
as I turn from your little-girl
grin and invitation to follow.