a Friday poem

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Cradle your son, Mary.

He is gone a while.

Sunlight, refrigerated in earth.

Stored up, like breath

held - until we gasp

and catch it again -

Held in an egg, in a wing, 

in a black eye, darting

- shiny and alert.

Held in the waiting

of thirst and hunger.

Held in a gliding flight

up a hill of wind that slopes

up, then down again,

the flyer floating

back down, silent as a blade of sun

that pierces a seed

and spills life into the ground.

Cradle your son, Mary.

He is gone a while.

~ Ruth M.

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