Annunciation’s Eve
Tomorrow we tell them
the fate of rain
the fate of children
the fate of weeds.
For now we pour more drinks.
We play the last hand
then glide our bikes long
into darkness.
We feel old wind
matted in our fur
an owl’s call
caught in our breathing.
We find ourselves lost
in a cul-de-sac
not where we expected
moss to be.
Rain falls.
It rises to our knees.
It smells like water
we already made.
Now we are swollen
and floating down the river
with voices flooding
our wind.
We try to sing but
only birds come out
and wildflowers
grazing in a field.
They think
breathing is easy
and making light
at dawn.
They do not notice
from their desk chairs
their waiting rooms
their screens.
They tend to
dream of trees
where old leaves dance
toward heaven.
They cannot sleep
as we do, only
lie down in pastures
to rest their days.
In morning
before our dew dissolves
we sanctify them
with birdsong.
We provide them
what they need
until rivers break
and new birth roars.
Here in the fields
we hope for more than seeds
we hope for scars of learning
we hope for joy that way.
