from a cloister of ferns 

 the leaves are insatiably 
 amber this morning 
 as you lean 
 
 into the sunrise’s first wave 
 of birdsong and into 
 shrubbery hissing with wind 
 
 the sunlight opens its fist 
 and in a cloister of ferns 
 a woman appears 
 
 her flesh is the moonlight 
 of magnolia blossoms 
 and as she walks by 
 
 the flowers hold 
 their breath and churn 
 in their colors 
 
 she is the ghost of your baby 
 daughter grown older 
 day for day after the tragedy 
 
 the branches and vines 
 are a dense network 
 of arteries swimming 
 
 in the glass eye that now caps 
 the anguished void you dug out 
 with your own finger 
 
 and with this new day 
 you settle in place 
 with the roots beneath you 
 
 for her you will not move  you will finally witness your daughter 
 drifting from your shadow 
 into the shadows of trees 
 

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Copyright, Michael Spring.
 All Rights Reserved by Author.