What I Learned from You

The perfect storm: your first breath—

how it blew my life open!

From the moment of your birth, that beautiful siege,

you were warrior-brave: your black shingled hair,

like crow feathers shot from night’s bow.

Barely finished with heaven,

you, remembering God’s smell.

And when you forgot,

I was supposed to mark the scent,

and remind you the Way home.

What did I know then? Nothing.

Not even to lay out my clumsy newness

on the powder blue receiving blanket, next to you.

Love is hard, rash, wrong, and tender.

I fed you my everything with a shaky spoon.

The shadows grow, dear star.

How much time is left us?

Counting your sparks, I reckon you’re young.

I wish you at least a hundred candles, and when you’re alone—

hours lit by companionable spheres.

I wish you important dreams.

Ones that frighten you awake,

dreams drenched with colors that tell the truth:

blood red, bone white, and green deep. I wish you

clean comfort when you roll out of bed.

I will tell you what I’ve learned so far:

Do not be easy, but be love.

Eat the hours; they don’t keep.

When you have to—weep,

but know this one thing plain:

You are one miracle I have seen.

--Claire Germain Nail 2016