Enough
And I hope that your eyes are earthquakes,
The beauty and wreckage of roiling magma
In constant making and unmaking.
Cracked, the mantle of your irises
Will unburden themselves, their depth and fury
As inevitable as the turning Earth.
And I hope that your heart is a sunflower
Tracing your ancestral starfire Eastwards,
Fearing not its manifested insects
Because you know in your blood that love
Is both the hushed footprints of honeybees
And their shadows over unborn blossom.
And I hope that your forearms are a kiln
Reforging your hands as porcelain birds;
Creatures of fissures and shatterings that sing
Beautifully of cataclysms, despite
Our deafness to broken things, because dust
And fragments conceive every offered palm.
And I hope that your ribs are a satellite;
Arc-light tracing geometries of silence
That know movement is just distance and falling.
You, too, would be a keeling glow, tumbling
Around the planets that rattle through our heads
To grasp the gravity of each thought.
And I hope that your throat is the snowfall
And the thaw and their serenities,
Raking the sky with dreaming tree-lines
Or calling the shred of topsoil with ice;
The dead world and the warming lung
Borrowing the urgency of bird-flight.
And somewhere in the space between all things
Know this is my love, and such love is quite enough.
For my daughter
