Once there was an anxious awaiting for the moon’s pull
leeching freedom from love’s improvisations
until some morning red poppies
bloom in beauty upon my sheets
a welcome familiar clenching
the harbinger of dreams undeferred.
Now there is an anxious awaiting of the moon’s pull
the ancient affirmation of love’s full circle
until some morning cruel flowers
bloom again upon our sheets
drying to the color of rotten plums
the hue of hopes lost one more time
around 1995. Sometime, remind me to tell you the story of how our youngest child was prayed into existence by our entire parish.