minuets and waltzes before school in the morning.
Standing in the doorway,
he'd motion me on as I walked backwards,
keeping him in my gaze. Bright yellow
dress dotted with white, lifting with each wave
of my arm. Too soon, we laid him gently
into the earth, pillowing the ground with
marigolds, murmurs of prayers. Year after year,
I find myself planting more golden anchors, filling
spaces, piecing together what I can remember:
shimmering ribbons of sounds,
words soaring from a voice rich,
lush as new gardenias.
A young girl waiting to bloom, listening,
as I do now, for her father.
(c)Ann Falcone Salaski 2007
from World Made of Glass
San Francisco Bay Press
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