by Holly Day
I bury their tiny heads in peat and think
Of the day when the sun warms the soil
And my children’s bodies sprout leaves and sing flowers
Into the sunshine. Raise those tiny fists high
Rejoice in the world. I don’t pray often.
Snow falls outside my window and I think
About the tiny bodies outside, the small unpeople
Obscured by dunes of white crystal
They’re only sleeping, I think
And dream of the day when roots
Climb through their bones, branches like fingers grow
Until they touch the sky.