by Phoebe Anthus
I dreamt of the mountain air
the night that heaven centered
all earth’s anchor in this worried womb.
The wind was new, and ever in its arms
carried a settled peace.
And I recall the weight of
waking still with purple dawn,
glory all around—
Allow me to weep with you, Rachel,
for your sons, like mine, are gone.
Allow me to lament in song.
Oh, how they tried
to catch the King of Glory unawares.
Yet you grew, my Love.
You laughed, and filled your arms with straw
flinging them wide over the world,
and over me, my son.
I dreamt of the mountain springs
that night, and wept with bitter peace.
Photo by Kenneth Godoy