JUBILANT FATHER
His face is like a sun, warms the moon beside him.
She´s grown full; tonight begins the waning.
The tide pulls through her very bones,
her form aches as each wave crests.
The earth pulse, heavy, blood warm within her
Beats new chords, old sun god chants.
"You are the first mother and the last,
all spring flesh has traveled through you."
Aztec plumed and gold beaded,
your priest kneels at the holy alter,
gathers each salt pearl shed, nectar for his sacrament.
You are the temple,
we pilgrims swept through the gates,
bent figures know the scent and petals of your presence,
spread our arms to harvest blossoms,
and your priest, sun struck, kneels beside you.
She'll always be glad she brought him tulips -- a bright smear of red hope against nine below cold frosting the window opaque, and grey walls, with pools of shadow in corners untouched by fluorescence.
He is back from the hospital to his own room in the nursing home, incontinent, sunken jawed, and muttering gibberish -- this grandfather who was so smart, so full of stories.
Tears stream down her face. Her young man holds her hand and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.
The old man doesn't open his eyes, but he nods, seal of approval, he says, making sense, meaning the tall boy.
Like to break all records, New Hampshire forecaster intones -- worse cold in memory. Her fingers ache from it ... from both. It's a bitter night, but she'll always be glad she brought him tulips.
