by Phoebe Anthus
Time is of essence I know,
but, I will wait to wash these fingerprints
from the paint around your pantry door till
A day at noon when bent trees straighten,
and wind slows, the smell of your skin lingering
one second more
on the purple shawl you left me.
Yes, a day like this, but—
Today I pricked my finger, sorting through your drawer.
I was glad because the life is in the blood,
and I had some to spare.
Some to give this moment
when the wind is not blowing your scent away,
and like you’d say
every moment is
this daily bread,
is gift given towards tomorrow,
toward the rain falling from the belly of sky.
Oh rain that is grief,
and grief that is not enough—
be life and daily bread for this mortal moment
when earth and mother mixed so tenderly,
are everywhere and nowhere all in one.
Oh rain, dark rain,
falling on mother where she rests,
have mercy, for time is of essence
and so much left undone—
Phoebe Anthus is a stubborn artist with her head not so far into the clouds that she cannot notice the solid, sensible things as well.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy