my mother’s breath sustains me:
be patient, damp blossom, wait
for the green strength of a bull.
Under the thriving apple boughs
a man hurls clumps of the dark soil,
searching for the bottle he buried as a child,
the jewel of his early sorrow.
He follows geese on a faithful wind
as they fly in one direction;
distance hides their rigorous fervor,
a single feather skims the pond.
This man, my husband, stakes the ground
and strings our hope of a home,
an empty box, a simple thought,
mild and kind, substantial stars.