Softly It Enters, Speaks

(after Jane Kenyon)

She is fireweed struggling
up out of the ashes,
purple petals ablaze...

a smile, a grimace, a gift...

she is a child, open heart
surgery, and crossed eyes...

silence, sign language,
whispers and song...

she is the first snow, the last
brittle leaf of the winter oak,
the first wildflower bud...

the duckling, awkward,
learning to fly...

the shy kitten, determined
making her own way...

she is a raindrop clinging
to a pine needle...

the tempest, the eye
of the storm, the sunburst...

She is the one who
always finds my heart,
before I know it is lost.

***

Another for my daughter Meghan. She has Down syndrome. This poem is everyhting she is.