Stroke

1

Grey snow fell as a sheep

is sheared,

particles, twists of fur descending from above.

***

2

To care for a parent

older than the world would dare to manage



nose to nose with their drying strength

left, their yellow cheeks

right, their pink eyes.

***

3

“I am your daughter always”

repeats my calf liver to the liver of the grass,

and I lay down.

***

4

Listen, and you only hear sound,

the watchers only see the sight,

the elders see only their own greying hands,



as children believe

they will play always infront of one who protects.

***

5

Whatever I clean with my yellow sponge,

I keep singing out

the same hymns:



For the children will grow on the seeds that we sow.



Then I spray disinfectant over the grease, swaying.

***

6

A plant respiring is indifferent to its pot

but not to the sun.

***

7

The hope

of what should never have happened –



a box locked with a miracle within,

conscious.



The thinness of a hospital blanket

shivering

a pirate sticker book

resting on the bedside table.

***

8

Who is the root, who is the bold petal,

transforms,

but of all of us,



only the grey snow can melt in, with the aid of the ultraviolet sun

that still shines into the tiring reds and purples of the brain.

***

9

“You have her eyes”

told not to a relative or a familiar.

This recognition for which we waited an epoch,

an age, a moment.



Like the brown Earth falling

from its stand.