Sometimes I'll hear a reading of a poem that touches me with it's description of a moment. A moment that many can relate to. The following is one I heard this morning on NPR:
"Written on the Due Date of a Son Never Born."
by David Wojahn
Echinacea, Bee Balm, Aster, Trumpet Vine,
I watch your mother bend to prune,
water sluicing silver from the hose.
Another morning you will never see.
dragonflies flare, the un-petaled rose.
Six A.M. and already she's breaking down,
hose flung to the sidewalk where it snakes and pulses in a steady keening glitter,
both hands to her face.
That much I can give you of these hours.
That much only,
fists and blossom forged by salt,
trellising your wounded helixes against our days.
Tell us how to live for we are shades,
facing, caged, the chastening sun.
Our eyes are scorched and lidless.
We cannot bear your light.