Grace, a poem


When winter was as old as grandmother—

with her silver hair branches and silver skin fields, 

pleased to live forever—I bought ten yellow tulips.

I rested their stems on my forearm, their

silken glowing faces on my elbow like a newborn

as I walked through a dusty violet sky.

Strangers smiled, surprised to see the burst of bright.

The moon dangled its sliver,

the air whispered its shiver,

and the flowers were a sleeping child.