The Fritillary’s Flight

You wove up through divergent ancestries
        into being, knowing full well—
                                        I have to believe—
    your time could be brief, not much
more than a fritillary’s scattered flight
                through high desert meadows.

A parent finds something like religion
    in gazing upon their firstborn child—
There is wonder, hope, and yes… worry.
    You come, eyes bright
                                    as a newborn star,
        radiating life in all directions,
            the dimmest horizon now bright
                            with possibility.

You blessed us with infinite trust…
                    frailness and uncertainty.
    The scaffolding of your perfect being
contained but one irregularity, leaving
        your new home exposed to invisible
            dangers. Yet still you smiled,
    laughed and pointed… and as all things
                living must, sometimes cried.

    We learn quickly
        something is wrong—your body
                        will not fight disease,
                the prognosis unclear and
                                fraught with dread.

Still we raise weary eyes to your coos
    and meet your needs
        as we smile back fathomless fears.
Still we scour journals, consult experts,
    and visit doctors who assuage—
        as best they can—with that fabled
                    rhetoric of the powerless.
Still we call out with all that we are
    for a benevolent spirit to hear,
        heed, and come forth to our aid.

And somehow, through miracle, science—
        or both—there has been a glimmer
            of better days to come,
    of the feel of grass, fresh high desert air,
the touch and unfettered laugh of playmates.

    We will be here through all that comes—
and never waver—in the hope that one day
it will be you who approaches two long plots
    of earth with flowers, memories, and
                                    gratitude.
        Where we, having lived out the fullness
                of our days, wait in the rustling
            leaves of a cottonwood to hear you
    speak of love, loss, joy, pain—the entire
                            fullness of living.

And maybe you will hear our joy and pride
                whispered in the slight brush
    of a fritillary’s powdered wings just near
            your outstretched ears.

The Survivor

It was not a train wreck. The car
didn’t screech, slow, tilt and roll,
passengers sent flying throughout
the cabin with their tablets,
purses and cell phones. There
was no shattered glass, no screams,
no sudden eerie silence amid
cracked skulls, broken bones
and twisted frames of steel—
                                 But I survived.
                 I don’t know how.

It was not a plane crash.
There was no sudden sensation
of lost momentum, no jarring
thrusts up, down and sideways.
The captain never broke over
the intercom in strained, measured
tones, “Brace for impact.”
I never tucked my head
between cramped knees
and waited for that last, terrible jolt—
                                 But I survived.
                 I don’t know why.

It was not a shipwreck. A massive
rogue wave never folded out
from the wake, snapping untold
fathoms against the wide, blue-gray
hull—covered orange lifeboat ripped
away. Steel plates never buckled
abeam at the blow, seams splitting
abreast open seas. Water never
flooded the holds, one by one,
as gunwales leaned in slow motion
down to drink in the surf.
                                 But I survived.
                 I don’t understand.
 

It was the snap of his belt, the back
of his hand, holes gaping jagged
rage from the walls, a relentless
unpredictable fury that sent my soul
crashing around in the tumbling
train car of never-ending terror.
                                 Yet I persisted,
       and learned to curb his rage.

It was the bullwhip crack of her
tongue, the icy black slash of her
words, the voracious canine rip
of her blame, an ever present hair-
raising resentment that plunged all
self-esteem headlong into sorrow.
                                 Yet I endured,
       and learned to quell her malice.

It was an ocean of apathy where just
beneath the steady rise and fall
of visceral uncertainty lurked
sudden swells of violence that rose
and smashed through the wide hull
of sanity, sinking always again what
dim hope there was into darkness.
                                 Yet I emerged,
       and learned to calm my unrest.